


The Kids Aren't Alright

by andavri, morgaine2005



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arthurian legend - Freeform, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon Compliant, F/M, Long, Original Character-centric, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-05-18 11:58:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 54
Words: 305,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5927523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andavri/pseuds/andavri, https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgaine2005/pseuds/morgaine2005
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set at Hogwarts, ten years after DH. Four students start an elective archaeology class only to find that things weren't quite as stated on the tin. Hijinks more than likely ensue. Mostly OC-centric with a fair sprinkling of cameos. Mostly canon, though a little bit of ret-con/AU because the authors are huge Arthurian legend nerds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: More Deadly than the Male

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very, very long work that we've been working on for months. The good news is that it's finished, the writing at least. The bad news is that the editing is ongoing. We're going to aim for 1 chapter per week at first, hopefully increasing the pace as the editing gets finished.
> 
> If you like, please leave a comment or review!

**Prologue: More Deadly than the Male**

Morgan had never flown so fast in her life.

Her heart was hammering even faster than her wings beat at the sky. It had been hammering ever since her maid Beryan had crashed out from the trees in her doe shape. Beryan had been out of breath when she transformed back into herself, but even as she strove to breathe, she was able to gasp out two words.

“ _Rowanne—danger—_ ”

Morgan had almost flown off then, her mother-heart in her throat and her wand in her hand. But Beryan’s hand had locked on her shoulder, and Morgan had been forced to wait while Beryan explained.

A Saxon wizard had attacked her stronghold. What he wanted was simple enough: the enchanted armor and sword her brother Arthur had left with her before he rode off to the battle that both knew would be his last. That was not surprising. Not for the first time, Morgan cursed her luck and wished they had just thrown the bloody things into the lake, as they had decided to say they had.

What was surprising was that the wizard had learned, somehow, that there was a blood-lock that prevented the sword and armor from being removed from their rightful place.

And now he was using Rowanne, Morgan’s daughter, her only child, to get past it.

_I’ll kill him I’ll kill him I’ll kill him—_

She should have been conserving her strength for the battle ahead. But anger and fear together combined to give her strength of the kind that men wrote legends about. Her stronghold was coming into view, and that strength flowed into her wings, letting her eat up the miles below.

Beryan, she knew, was following – but a deer, though fleet of foot, could not fly over obstacles as a raven could. And Beryan was tired from her outward journey. Morgan would be facing this battle alone, and they both knew it.

Beryan had last seen the Saxon wizard dragging Rowanne and her maid Wenna into the high tower, where the sword and armor were kept. So Morgan made for that tower. She flew toward one of the glassless windows about halfway up, listening.

“ _Crucio_!”

And then a scream.

Morgan forced herself not to note that the voice that spoke was low and deep and male while the voice that screamed was high and young and female. She forced herself to pay attention to the direction only.

Up.

Morgan flew up, following the screams – and there were so many screams – to the very top of the tower, where the sword and armor rested. She ought to have guessed this.

She told herself it didn’t matter. She was here now, wasn’t she? And the hundred steps that might have slowed a woman down mattered not at all to a bird.

Morgan flapped to the uppermost window, landed on the sill, and looked in. It was only the knowledge that getting herself killed trying to save her daughter would not help matters that kept her from flying headlong into the room and gouging the wizard’s eyes out with beak and talons. 

“I won’t do it!” came a sob to Morgan’s right.

_Rowanne!_

Her daughter’s hair had come loose from its plait, her clothes torn and disheveled. Her hands were bound with faintly glowing magical rope. But Rowanne’s eyes blazed defiance.

“You c-can’t—you c-can’t make me! I won’t hurt Wenna—and I’ll never help _you_!”

The last words were an attempt at a snarl. Unfortunately, in her fourteen years, Rowanne had never been much for snarling. And there was too much pain and fear in her eyes to make the snarl convincing now.

There were two other people in the room. One was Wenna, bound and gagged and terrified in the corner opposite Rowanne. The other, between Wenna and Rowanne, was the Saxon wizard. He was tall, burly, with the blond hair that was so common among his people. He stood close to the stone table that held the enchanted armor and sword, one of the few pieces of furniture in the room.

He made the mistake of laughing.

“Oh, but you are wrong, little one. One – I can make you. And two – you will do both.”

Rowanne gasped, but she shut her mouth and shook her head.

“I can make you, you know,” the Saxon wizard went on. “Very easily. It took me, what, two minutes to wrest that wand from your little hand? Pathetic. You are powerless. You are _mine_.”

To Morgan’s horror, she saw the wizard’s hands go to the belt that was holding in his tunic and holding up his trousers. He began to unbuckle it.

“And I will make you mine,” he continued in the kind of tone normal people might use to talk about the weather. “And you will do as I please. And that will be that.”

_Now._

Morgan launched herself into the room, changing as she fell from windowsill to floor. Her wand was already out as she resumed her proper shape.

She shouted her first curse and sent him flying into the wall opposite. “Is that all you’ve got, you bastard?” she snarled.

The wizard stared at her, mouth agape.

She didn’t give him a chance to cast a spell – or even pull his trousers up – before she cast her next curse.

“Mama!” Rowanne shouted.

A slashing motion with her wand broke Rowanne’s bonds. Rowanne forced her way to her feet and tried to run to Morgan, but Morgan frantically shook her head. “Untie Wenna and _run_!”

“ _Crucio_!” The wizard must have recovered.

“ _Protego_!” Morgan called back.

The shield might have been powerful enough to block the curse, or it might not have.

Morgan couldn’t tell, because the shield protected the wrong person.

Wenna arched her back and screamed.

“ _Wenna_!” Rowanne ran to her friend.

“ _Cru_ —”

“ _Relashio_!”

A jet of sparks leapt from Morgan’s wand toward the wizard, who was trying to hold up his trousers with his spare hand. He howled when they caught on his tunic, burning through.

“Get Wenna and _go_!” Morgan shouted at Rowanne, then threw another curse at the wizard.

She couldn’t keep looking at Rowanne. She had to concentrate on the wizard.

Blue, red, green, purple lights flashed across the room as they cast curse after curse. Morgan’s anger kept her going, but the lights from her wand were not as bright as the lights from the wizard’s. Her arms ached; her flight had been long. And the wizard looked like a warrior – a warrior with the sword as well as the wand.

As she had learned from her brother, skill with one generally led to skill with the other. Fighting, Arthur had always said, was as much about what went on in your head as what went on with your hands, feet, or wand.

The wizard seemed to understand this, for he laughed. “Foolish woman! Do you not know who I am? I am Cyneric of Wurthingas!”

Even if the name had made chills go down her spine and the fear puddle at her feet, Morgan would not have shown it. As it is, she didn’t have to expend extra energy to lie. “Never heard of you. _Oppugno_!”

The wizard’s eyes went wide, and he almost didn’t duck before the chair that Morgan sent flying at him hit.

“ _Never heard of me_?” he roared. “ _Confringo_!”

Morgan dove to the side. Stone exploded behind her as the spell careened into the wall.

“I have won the wands of ten warlocks! _Crucio_!”

Morgan cast a Shield Charm near where she had last seen the girls and rolled out of the way.

“Do you know what happened to Bedwyr, Bors, and Drustan? _I killed them_! _Intestinae expelle_!”

“ _Protego_!” The spell bounced harmlessly off the shield – and from the corner of her eye, Morgan saw Rowanne haul Wenna to her feet and make for the stairs.

The girls didn’t get far before Morgan heard a growl—and a scream.

The girls ran back up, and chasing them was a—a—

It looked like a tiger or lion made of globules of green-brown swamp mud with glowing red eyes. Coming from the front paws were long, sharp lines of hardened swamp-rock—claws.

“And did I mention?” the wizard chuckled. He still stood with his back to the armor and sword, his hands on his hips and a wild grin in place. No matter how Morgan ducked and dodged and rolled, he never went far from the armor and sword.

Still grinning, he continued, “I’ve made a Clawspawn. I planned on feeding you to it once I had what I came here for—maybe making your daughter watch. Perhaps I shall do so now.”

Rowanne screamed—and one lone shaft of sunlight burst into the room, hitting the armor and winking off it.

_… Arthur?_

Morgan looked up at the wizard and knew what she had to do.

“ _Revulso_!”

The spell hit the wizard square in the chest, forcing him back. It wasn’t that strong. It wasn’t _meant_ to be that strong. But it was strong enough to make him lose his balance and grab at the first thing that came to hand to regain it.

The breastplate.

Morgan had worked every protective spell she knew to keep that armor in its place. It could only be moved by her, or Rowanne or one of her descendants. It could only be moved of her own _free will_. She could not be coerced or tortured into it. She’d worked the spells so that she, Rowanne, or one of their descendants could move the armor to give it to a man that she thought was worthy of it.

But if anyone else dared to touch it …

The wizard’s hand was stiff on the breastplate. Lightning crackled over the armor and up the wizard’s arm. His mouth fell open in a silent scream.

He didn’t stay silent for long. Morgan knew she would hear his scream in her nightmares for years to come.

The lightning danced over the wizard, burning holes in his tunic as it leapt from one patch of skin to the next. He fell to his knees, but still his hand would not – _could not_ – move from the armor.

The room filled with the smell of burning flesh. The Clawspawn arched on its hind legs and gave a primal scream.

The wizard was not ready to give up yet. He raised his wand hand—shakily—his mouth started to move—

He fell forward, dead. The Clawspawn shuddered and fell, too.

Morgan let her arm drop. She took a deep breath—

The room began to shake.

“Mama?” Rowanne called.

Morgan had a split second to assess and make a decision. It only took her half that time.

“ _Run_!”

Rowanne and Wenna didn’t need to be told twice.

Down they ran—Morgan following—down the hundred steps that led to the ground floor of the keep. As they ran, the castle around them shook and trembled. Dust and small stones fell from the walls and stairs above onto them. But no large stones – no beams, nothing like that. Later, Morgan would wonder why.

Now, all she cared about was chasing the girls before her and _running_.

They ran into the main living area of the keep and out of it, to the ground floor, through the courtyard and the past the outbuildings. Was it Morgan’s imagination, or was the gate retreating from them with every step?

No—not the gate—the land _outside_ the gate—there was a gap between the ground inside the gate and outside it—

“ _Mobilicorpus! Mobilicorpus!_ ” Morgan shouted, pointing her wand at Rowanne and then Wenna. The girls yelped as Morgan’s magic grabbed them and flew them headlong toward the gate. Morgan changed herself into her raven-shape and followed after them.

First Rowanne, then Wenna, then Morgan—all three rushed through the gate. And Morgan _felt_ the castle shift behind them.

 _Shift?_ She wondered. She landed on the soft grass beside the girls. Wenna gaped at the castle, her eyes wide.

Morgan changed herself back into her true form, looked back—

There was no castle there.

_What—_

She barely had time to wonder before the sound of pounding hooves came to her ears. Morgan forced herself to stand up, forced herself to draw her wand once more as a brown-and-white shape burst through the trees—

“Beryan!” she shouted when she caught sight of the doe. “For Rhiannon’s sake! I could have hexed you!”

The doe cast her a sidelong glance before shaking her head and changing back into Beryan. “But you didn’t,” Beryan replied. “So. It’s good riddance to bad rubbish, then?”

Morgan stared at her friend—then she laughed. The laugh was a little too high and a little too brittle for her taste. “I knew I should have just tossed the damn things into the lake once Arthur went off!”

“I _meant_ that awful Saxon wizard,” Beryan replied. “Is everyone all right?”

The first answer she got to that was a muffled sob.

“Rowanne,” Morgan gasped. She fell to her knees by her daughter, her own fatigue forgotten. “Oh, my poor baby …”

Rowanne sobbed and clung to Morgan. Wenna began to sniffle too, and Beryan quickly caught her in her arms.

“Shush, shush,” Morgan whispered into Rowanne’s hair, stroking it, pretending that she didn’t notice how her hand was shaking. “It’s all right. You’re all right. He’s dead now. He’s dead and he’ll never hurt you, never hurt anyone again.”

“I’m s-s-s-sorry!” Rowanne finally sobbed.

“You’re—what? No, no, darling—don’t be sorry—why should you be sorry?”

“He t-t-took my wand! He—he wanted me to k-k-kill Wenna! I w-w-wouldn’t! But he s-s-said I had to, and I had to make a—a _Horcrux_ —s-s-so he could use it to g-g-get Uncle Arthur’s armor!”

“What?” Beryan whispered. Morgan shrugged at her. She thought she could see what the wizard’s plan was—control part of Rowanne’s soul to try to get past the blood-lock—but she couldn’t imagine that it would have worked.

Not that it would have mattered. If he’d succeeded, he would have caused more damage than the bloody armor and sword were ever worth.

“And n-n-now—now we lost our home!” Rowanne sobbed. “And it’s all my f-f-fault!”

“It is _not_ your fault,” Morgan said, firmly. “If it is anyone’s fault it is mine, for not protecting you well enough. Or better yet—it is _his_ fault.

“And we have not lost our home.” Morgan gently pulled away from Rowanne so she could look into her eyes, mismatched emerald and amethyst, just as hers were. She brushed a few strands of glossy black hair from her daughter’s face. “You are here. I am here. Beryan and Wenna are here. Home is where the people you love are; home is not just a place.

“And there is a place we can go—remember? Maybe you don’t.” Morgan caressed her daughter’s cheek. “You were so young when we left. But Caer Tintagel still stands, and though your uncle can no longer protect it, Merlin’s spells still hold. It is ours by right. We can go back there.”

“C-Caer Tintagel?” Rowanne repeated. “But—Mama! It’s in Cornwall! That’s—that’s hundreds of miles away!”

“So?” asked Beryan. “I’ll grant you, I’ll be sorry to say goodbye to the highlands—but Rowanne, don’t you remember who your mother is?” Beryan grinned. “Morgan, daughter of Gorlois—a witch so powerful that the Muggles call her Morgan le Fay.”

Morgan smiled at Rowanne, even if Rowanne still looked unsure. “We’ll get there, love. All four of us. We’ll make a new home there.”

She didn’t give Rowanne a chance to reply. She held her close again, and by the way Rowanne clung to her, Morgan could tell her daughter still needed this more than anything else.

Still, Morgan’s eyes went to the place where her stronghold, her castle, and—yes—her home had stood not so long ago.

 _Rowanne is safe. Wenna is safe. Beryan and I are safe,_ she told herself. She told herself that several times, as if repeating it would make it true. _Even Arthur’s bloody armor is safe._

_And Cyneric of Wurthingas – whoever the hell he was – is dead, and will hurt neither me nor mine ever again._

She wondered how many times she would have to repeat _that_ to herself in order to believe it. But even if she repeated it every moment of every day until the world finally came to an end …

She didn’t think she could say it enough times to make it true.

 


	2. Chapter 1: Friends: God’s Way of Making Up for Your Family

**Chapter 1: Friends: God’s Way of Making Up for Your Family**

The August sun peeked out from a hole in the wall-to-wall dark clouds, not that you could see much of the sky from the narrow London street. It was moments like these that made Ben intensely homesick for the wide open plains and summer-dry grass of home. But the witch – literal and figurative as far as Ben was concerned – in the well-cut Muggle dress and wide-brimmed black Audrey Hepburn hat left him little time for gawking at the brief appearance of sun or for homesickness as she strode toward the waiting car with the air of not intending to dally for Ben.

He wasn’t sure if C. Madeline would actually leave him on the street if he wasn’t in the car by the time her skirt was settled, but he also wouldn’t put it past her. And while he could probably have found a cab, the only Muggle money he had on him was American.

So Ben climbed into the car and sat next to the cat carrier that C. Madeline was eyeing as if just the proximity would cover her in an avalanche of cat fur. Much as the meal had been, the trip to King’s Cross was silent. Ben had nothing to say, and silence out of his companion meant she wasn’t commenting on his hair, his clothes, or his posture. All of his were far too Muggle for C. Madeline’s taste, even if the dress she wore bore a Chanel label. He only knew the brand because Desi had dragged him out shopping in Dallas over the summer, and he’d seen an identical one while there.

He watched London pass him by through the car window, about the only way he saw most of London, and waited for the ride to be over with.

“I’ll only be a few minutes, Rodney,” C. Madeline said as the driver opened the door for her after they’d arrived at the station.

“Yes’m, Mrs. Corbie.”

Ben got out of the car before the poor man had to trot around to Ben’s side of the car, like opening a car door was hard or something. Rodney procured a luggage cart as Ben unloaded his trunk and duffle from the car. C. Madeline was too well bred to huff, but she did manage to express impatience just standing there watching Ben as he helped Rodney load his belongings onto the cart.

“How do you put up with her?” Ben muttered to the driver as C. Madeline caught sight of some friends (or whatever passed for them in her circle) and left Ben and Rodney to do the work. Ben put up with C. Madeline because he didn’t have a choice in the matter. Rodney was as much a fixture of Ben’s trips to and from Hogwarts as the visit from C. Madeline was.

“Well, compared to some of the others? She, at least, knows my name and doesn’t treat me like I’m lower than a blind, deaf house-elf,” Rodney told him. “Plus, she might be a bitch, but she tips like _whoa_.”

“Whatever works for you.” Ben grinned at him before stepping behind the now loaded cart and heading for the door to the station. The older woman caught up to him near the sign for Platform 9 and followed him through the wall into the chaos of Platform 9¾ on September first. He passed several people who were at least acquaintances, if not friends. Midway up the train, by mutual, unspoken accord, they turned to look at each other.

“Benjamin.”

“Grandmother,” Ben said with a formal nod.

She didn’t move to hug him or anything grandmotherly like that. She gave him a once over, as if asserting to herself that he was presentable, hair not out of place, no tomato sauce marring his white tee-shirt, nothing on his face, then nodded in approval.

“Will you be going back for Christmas? Or Easter?” she asked.

Ben shook his head; he would barely shake the jetlag before having to get back on the plane.

“Then I will see you after school lets out for the year.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Something crossed over her face when he said that, but hell if he could read it, and it was gone almost too quickly to even be called fleeting. He nodded at her and started to turn away.

“Benjamin, wait,” C. Madeline said. “I—want you to have this.” She handed him something, a small bag that jingled when he took it. It wouldn’t do – and felt like a test besides – to look into the bag, so he simply took and pocketed it.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” C. Madeline said, giving him something that, were it a bit more perceptible and on someone else’s face, might have been a smile. “Charlotte.” She turned and headed for her daughter, who was probably here dropping off Ben’s cousins.

Now that his maternal grandmother was his aunt’s problem, he finally felt like he could breathe. Pushing his baggage cart in front of him, Ben went in search of …

“Look at our boy, Kasumi.” The voice was loud, with more than a faint Italian accent that always puzzled Ben. Cameron maintained that he, his father and grandfather were all born in Britain and had lived there all their lives. “Huh, look at this boy. Next time we see him, he’ll be of age.” Leon kissed both his son’s cheeks.

“As he looks at the friends you’re embarrassing him in front of.” Cameron’s mother smirked. It was nothing against Kasumi – she was much the same to him that she was to his best friend – but there seemed no face Ben had ever seen, his cousin’s included, that was quite so designed for a smirk. “Benny.” She extended her hands to Ben, who took them. She squeezed them lightly before drawing him into a hug. She was tiny, a dark haired, dark eyed woman, dressed in tweed suit that didn’t look dowdy or British professor at all, thanks to the leather bustier worn under the jacket and the silk scarf shot with threads of gold and edged in Vatican gold lace around her neck.

“Mrs. de Falco,” Ben said with a smile.

“Always with the missus, huh, Benny? Wouldn’t do to remind you that you’re family and family doesn’t need to be formal?” Leon, a man of average height and athletic weight, who nonetheless managed to take up more space than he actually needed, gave Ben the same cheek kiss he’d given his son, with careless disregard for his linen suit. He probably could have disregard for the suit; it wouldn’t have dared to wrinkle on him.

“No, sir.”

Leon laughed.

“Are you planning on coming home with Cameron for the holiday?” Kasumi asked as Leon released him.

“I—hadn’t decided yet.” Ben said noticing the ix-nay on Cameron’s face. “But I’ll be sure to let you know and thank you for the offer, Mrs. de Falco.”

“Mrs. This and Mr. That and Sir here and Ma’am there.” Leon shook his head. “How come our kid can’t be that polite?”

“Because even we wouldn’t believe he was our kid, then,” Kasumi said. “I’d tell you two to stay out of trouble, but I know it’s a waste of my breath. Besides, Leon’s never happier than when he has more of your exploits to share at the club. ‘Chip off the old block, just like his old man, our Cameron,’” Kasumi mimicked her husband perfectly. “That’s how you know he’s an old man—talks about his kid getting in trouble rather than causing trouble himself.”

“Speaking of trouble, Mum, we should probably go find Kenny and Ringo before they get into some without us,” Cameron told his parents, speaking for the first time since the de Falcos had come into Ben’s earshot.

“Can’t have that after all,” Ben agreed.

“What about Booker?” Kasumi asked, referring to the fifth member of Ben and Cameron’s dorm.

“He wouldn’t know trouble if it bit him in the ar—uh—arm,” Cameron said after a look at his parents’ faces.

Leon shook his head.

“Definitely a chip off the old block,” Kasumi laughed. After another round of hugs and kisses, Ben and Cameron finally got away from Cameron’s parents.

They picked Kenny up from his mother, who was apologizing – probably for the sixtieth time, given Kenny’s slightly pinched expression – for Kenny’s sister Kim not being there. Ms. Vasile looked about as miserable as Kenny did as they walked away.

“Dad still being an ass?” Cameron asked.

“He thinks that all the time that I spent with Aunt Darcy is what made me a wizard—he’ll ‘be damned’ if I do that to Kimmy.” Kenny kicked at a rock, hood pulled up on his orange tee-shirt, covering his brown hair. Ben knew that Kenny adored his baby sister – but he never got to see her, due to the fact that his father was an ass. “And my grandmum can’t understand why my dad never comes when I’m over at her house still.”

“He’s an ass, Ken,” Ben sighed, thumping the other boy good naturedly on the shoulder.

“I can have a couple of my cousins go visit him, if you want,” Cameron offered. “Dirk’s looking to get made.”

Ben shot a glare at Cameron.

“What?” Kenny asked, looking between them. “Why’s Ben glaring like that?”

“Getting made—at least in this context—is _killing_ someone, Kenny,” Ben told him.

“Cam, he’s an ass, but he’s still my dad. I don’t think we need to resort to _killing_ him.” Kenny sighed.

“They could just bend his knees backward or something, doesn’t have to be death. My cousins just like beating people up too.” Cameron shrugged unrepentantly.

“Still. My. Dad.” Kenny shook his head.

A little further down the platform they found Ringo – technically Harry, but everyone called him Ringo – also getting an apology from one of his parents for the other one of his parents.

“I know Aimee wanted to be here, but—it really is better if she stays in rehab this time,” Russell told his broken-nosed son.

“I know, Dad. I just—hope she _stays_ in rehab,” Ringo told his father, who looked miserable.

“She’s doing her best, Ringo.” Russell sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than Ringo. “But you don’t need to worry about that today. It’s September first, enjoy it.” He smiled at the other Gryffindor boys who were waiting for Ringo. “Try and stay out of trouble?”

Cameron and Ben looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“Did I miss something?”

“Oh, just that a few minutes ago Mrs. de Falco was riffing on the futility of telling us that, Mr. Garen,” Ben grinned.

“Well, it is futile with you boys.” He ruffled Ringo’s hair. “But we all try to anyway, one last time before we put you on the train.” Kenny, Ringo, and Cameron all nodded. “I take it your aunt didn’t, Ben?”

“Aunt Mary-Anne stayed in Texas this year. She was competing in the state hogtie and wasn’t getting back in time; Desi put me on the plane and she can’t say a word about me and trouble because the only person I know who gets into more trouble than us is her.” Ben shrugged. “And—Mrs. Corbie brought me to the station.”

Russell grimaced slightly.

“You could look at it as her also thinking it was a futile waste of breath.” Cameron gave Ben a shoulder slap.

“Or more likely—as she’s not the one who gets hit with owls home about me getting into trouble—she just doesn’t care,” Ben corrected.

“Well, sure, if you want to be a cynical arse about it.” Cameron shook his head.

Kenny and Ringo laughed, until they caught sight of Russell’s expression.

“I’m sure your aunt and uncle care,” Russell offered.

“My aunt and uncle don’t usually get owls home about me either,” Ben admitted. “Even we don’t do anything that’s really worth the effort of getting post all the way to Texas.”

“How do you get owls home?” Ringo asked curiously.

“I send letters to the international post office at the Ministry and then they magic them to the nearest hub office where they’re put on owls and sent out like normal mail,” Ben said with a shrug. “I guess with all the tech it’s not smart to have a lot of owls flying over the Atlantic.”

“Ah, point. Well, you probably better go find Booker, then some seats. I just got Ringo a new deck of exploding snap cards at the Wheezes when we were picking up school supplies.”

“And prevented me from any other essentials,” Ringo said in a stage whisper.

“I’m a dad, it’s my job.” Russell shook Ben’s, Cameron’s, and Kenny’s hands before they pretended not to notice Russell giving his son a hug.

Booker was waiting for them by their usual compartment on the train, and they collapsed into the seats. “Fuck me,” Cameron said. “Relatives, relatives, everywhere relatives, this is worse than trying to leave my Nan’s—only less Italian.”

“Well, we only have to do this a couple more times,” Booker reminded them.

“Ugh, somehow that just makes it worse,” Cameron told him.

“Your dad still expecting you to join the family business?”

“Yeah, took me around to the various ventures this summer, told me he wanted me to think about what I’d like to work on—he’s thinking I should get made this coming summer.” Cameron shook his head.

“Wait, Cam, didn’t Ben say that getting made involved—you know?” Kenny asked looking around like he expected Aurors and hit wizards to be surrounding the train.

“Yep.”

“And your dad _wants_ that?” Kenny gaped.

Cameron nodded without tipping his head down off the back of the seat.

“Better be careful, Kenny,” Ben smirked.

“You killed Kenny!” The boys pointed at Cameron. “You bastard!” 

* * *

_Why does my trunk get heavier every year?_ Rowan wondered, even if she didn’t have to. She _knew_ why. Every year more books found their way in there. She had cast Featherweight Charms on the trunk before she left school, but now they were wearing off. And she’d forgotten to ask her mother to renew them.

Still, at least she had a trolley to help her get the trunk – and the owl cage on top of it – to a compartment.

If she could _find_ a compartment.

Rowan’s blonde hair swayed from side to side as she looked from one compartment to the next. Most were already full – full of people she didn’t know. Her face was starting to heat up, and nobody had even looked at her or said anything to her yet.

Darwin, the barn owl in the cage on top of the trunk, hooted. Rowan forced a smile and stroked the feathers on his breast. “It’s all right, f-featherhead. We’ll find someplace to s-sit.”

She kept walking.

A pair of first-years – no, second-years now – darted from compartment to another, forcing Rowan to stop short with the cart. Darwin’s cage teetered and Rowan had to grab it quick before it could fall. Darwin turned his head almost a full one hundred eighty degrees and shrieked at the running second-years.

“Calm d-down, featherhead! No harm done,” Rowan muttered, even as she tried to start the trolley going again.

It was slow going, even without younger kids running out in front of her. The train had already set out from the station, and it rocked and swayed with every chuff and huff on the way down the tracks. Rowan had to judge each footstep carefully, and she messed up more often than she would have liked, stumbling or having to grab the wall for support when the train banked into a curve.

_You’re worse than Bella from that awful vampire book. Honestly, Rowan, pull yourself together!_

Darwin, flapping inside of his cage and turning his head from one side to the other, was not helping matters.

Finally, Rowan peeked into a compartment and saw what she had been looking for – five other Ravenclaws, with just enough room for a sixth.

She knocked on the door as she pushed her way in. “H-hi, guys.”

“Rowan!” That was Candice, jumping from the bench to give her a hug. “You’re here! Finally! What took you so long?”

“Um—” Rowan started.

She didn’t get farther than that. Blair was right behind Candice, looking prim and put together as ever. She was probably the only one on the train dressed in a skirt and jacket that would look more at home on a businesswoman than a seventeen-year-old student. “Hi, Rowan,” she said, coming for her hug as soon as Candice was done. “Did you have a good summer?”

“Y-yes, I did—you?”

“Oh—oh, fine.” Blair was speaking in her girly voice, the one that only came out when she was feeling self-conscious, and she wouldn’t meet Rowan’s eyes. But before Rowan could ask any more questions, she was almost tackled by another of her friends.

“Rowan!”

“Jon!” Rowan laughed, hugging him back. She felt better already. She’d met Jon five years ago today, on their first train ride to Hogwarts. He’d been sitting with his friend Zach, and the three of them had spent the ride up talking and trading stories of what they’d heard about the school and getting to know each other. When they had arrived, Jon and Rowan had been sorted into the same house, and Rowan had never been more relieved – at least she’d know _someone_ her age in the school.

Jon pulled back and grinned at Rowan. Jon was tall and athletic, with greenish-brownish-hazel eyes that sparkled whenever he was laughing at some private joke – which was most of the time. “I was afraid that your mystery boy had stolen you away from us for the train ride. And that’s just not fair.”

“Mystery boy?” Candice asked, looking from Jon to Rowan and back again. “Who’s the mystery boy?”

“We don’t know,” Jon said in a peculiar studied tone – and even if Rowan was turning as red as a tomato, she had to smile, because she recognized the tone and the line. She’d shown that movie to Jon last year, when he and Zach had stayed with her for their customary week in London. “It’s a mystery.”

“Oh, ha ha,” Candice replied, rolling her eyes. “But seriously, Rowan! You have a mystery boy and you didn’t tell us?”

“I d-d-don’t _have_ a mystery b-b-b-boy—” Rowan started.

“Would the three of you stop mobbing her and let her in?” asked an annoyed voice from behind Jon, Candice, and Blair – Aqil, or as his friends all called him, Quill. “Jesus, she’s barely even had a chance to get into the compartment!”

“Whoops,” Jon murmured. “Here, Rowan, let me get your trunk—”

“No, it’s all r-r-right, I’ve g-got—” Rowan started to root around in her shoulder bag for her wand.

“Too late. _Leviosa,_ ” said Jon, leaving Rowan to grab Darwin’s cage before he could float off with the trunk. The trunk itself was stowed up on the top rack, with the other trunks.

Rowan shook her head. “I c-c-could have done that.”

“But I wanted to,” Jon replied, making a sad puppy pout. Rowan had to chuckle. “There we are. My lady?” he asked, holding out his arm.

Rowan rolled her eyes but took the offered arm. Jon led her the three steps to where Rowan’s seat had been since the trip home for the summer after first year—on the bench between Jon and Quill.

Blair and Candice took their seats too, Blair sitting close to Aubrey as she always did. Aubrey had a book open in his lap, but now that he could get a word in edgewise, he smiled at Rowan. “Hello, Rowan.”

“Hi, Aubrey.” Rowan smoothed out her jeans, the gesture automatic and anxious even in familiar company.

There was a lull then, the sort of lull that Rowan never knew how to fill. But she didn’t have to worry, because Candice had taken her seat, and she had a slim rectangle of plastic in her lap, one that she was attacking with a screwdriver.

Rowan blinked as she stared at the rectangle. _That can’t possibly be …_

“Candice,” asked Blair, staring askance at the same rectangle, “what in Merlin’s name is that?”

Candice looked up with a grin and pushed her trailing black bangs out of her eyes. “It’s a laptop!”

Rowan’s jaw fell, and so did Quill’s. “You’re b-b-bringing a l-laptop to school?”

“You have a laptop? Your own laptop?” Quill repeated.

“Birthday money for the win,” Candice replied. Rowan wondered if anyone else noticed how Quill squirmed. It was subtle—she felt it in the movement of the bench more than saw it—and while Jon probably picked up on it, she doubted Blair and Aubrey would.

Candice certainly didn’t. She was too busy with her screwdriver. “And,” she said, “it’s going to be _awesome_.”

“But—but y-y-you know that electric objects d-d-don’t work at Hogwarts,” Rowan tried to reason with her, visions of frying circuit boards and destroyed batteries dancing through her head.

“Electric?” asked Aubrey, leaning around Blair to get a closer look. “It’s electric?”

Knowing she’d have to explain—and not quite trusting Quill to explain in a way that would be both wizard-friendly and appropriate for mixed company—Rowan said hurriedly, “It’s—it’s a M-Muggle—it helps M-Muggles to think.”

“It helps Muggles to _think_?” Blair repeated, staring askance at the laptop. She edged away from it and closer to Aubrey.

Rowan kicked herself; she should have reckoned with the wizarding prejudice against objects that thought – or appeared to think – for themselves. “It—it can do a lot,” Rowan finally settled for. “It—it can h-help you do m-maths—or g-g-get all k-kinds of information—”

“Only if you have an Internet connection,” Candice – well, she probably _thought_ she was clarifying, even if Blair, Aubrey, and Jon looked more confused than ever. “But that’s Phase Two. Phase One is getting this puppy to work. In Hogwarts.” She took out the last screw and opened up the case. “And here goes Phase One!”

“Wait—Candice,” Quill said before Rowan could, “what are you doing?”

Candice looked up with a grin. “Shield Charm! Well, maybe not _exactly_ a Shield Charm. _But_ , if I can shield the battery and the hard drive, RAM, and motherboard from the worst effects of the magical residue at the school, I _should_ be able to use this thing without worrying about it frying on me. Or exploding.”

“ _Exploding_?” asked Blair, edging away again.

“Ram?” asked Aubrey, trying to see around Blair – probably to find the mysterious ram inside the guts of the laptop.

“Not—n-not that k-kind of ram,” Rowan tried to explain, knowing it wasn’t good enough but that it was the best she could manage for the moment. “It’s—it’s an a-acronym.”

“Standing for what?” Aubrey asked, sounding more mystified than ever.

“Random Access Memory,” replied Candice. “It’s the memory that—”

“It helps the computer work,” Quill interrupted.

“Um … all right,” Aubrey replied.

“I’ll explain later,” Candice said, waving her hand. “You’ll see. Once I get this puppy to work, _everybody_ is going to want one.”

“… Why?” asked Blair.

“Because they’re awesome, that’s why!” Candice looked up, her eyes sparkling and a slightly manic grin crossing her face. “Do you have any idea what you can do with a computer? _Anything you want_! You can play games—write reports—find virtually _anything_ you ever wanted to find out—well, unless it’s about magic,” Candice admitted, “because somehow I don’t think any wizards have gotten on the Internet—but anyway! You can do anything! And! And!”

Candice’s eyes were even bigger as she leaned forward and whispered, conspiratorially, to Aubrey and Blair, “There are _funny cat videos_.”

“Oh, God,” Quill muttered, resting his head in his hands and shaking his head.

“… Rowan?” Jon asked quietly, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Um,” Rowan answered, “er … the Internet … k-k-kind of w-worships cats.”

“ _Huh_?” asked Blair.

Aubrey looked from Candice to Rowan and from Rowan to Candice. “ _Why_?” he finally asked.

“Because cats are awesome,” replied Candice.

While she had nothing against cats, Rowan decided to go for the more truthful answer. “Because the Internet is w-weird. And b-because p-people on the Internet … like … c-cats.”

“When I get this thing working,” Candice murmured, “I am so showing you all Cheezburger. Even you two,” she nodded at Rowan and Quill, “because while I know you must have heard about it, over the summer if nothing else, you clearly don’t get it.”

Rowan glanced from Aubrey and Blair – who were staring at each other in disbelief – to Quill – who still had his head in his hands – and finally to Jon – who was staring at Rowan with a raised eyebrow. Rowan felt herself start to flush.

“I’d s-s-say it makes s-sense in context,” Rowan replied, “but it r-r-really—um—d-doesn’t.”

And before anyone could ask any more questions – or Candice could go off on another tangent – Rowan decided to ask a hopefully neutral question. “S-s-so—how was everybody’s summer?”

And she hoped that by asking, she could be excused from asking – or answering – any questions more serious than that.

* * *

“And then, swear to Merlin, the bloke gets right up in Krem’s face.” Shae turned in her seat and grabbed Krem by the front of his tee-shirt, yanking the stocky boy forward so his nose was maybe an inch from hers. “And I could smell the firewhisky on his breath from where I was, and he slurs _Mudblood_ at Krem and I was about to take his drunken head off myself.”

“Why?” Trevor interrupted.

“He called him a Mudblood, Trev, why do you think?” Shae looked at him with a quirked eyebrow; then she grinned and batted her eyelashes. “Would you let some drunk call Jezebelle that?”

“C’mon, Shae, you promised you wouldn’t do that anymore.”

“It’s adorable, Trev. She’d eat you alive, but you would totally throw not just your jacket over a mud puddle for her, but dive face first into the mud to allow her to walk over your body,” Shae teased.

“Back to the story, Shae, before Trevor burns up with that blush,” Juliette ordered – as she always did. She didn’t make suggestions or ask questions; she ordered people about like the drill sergeant in that war movie that Zach had seen part of at Rowan’s. Zach had remembered asking Rowan about it, since he wouldn’t have thought that Robert, Rowan’s father who was a Muggle – and a biochemist, which Rowan said was kind of like a potions inventor, but not really – and a doctor, but not a like-a-healer doctor – would have been interested in war movies.

“ _It’s Kubrick,” she’d told him as if that explained everything. Obviously she’d seen the looks on his and Jon’s faces which said it didn’t, because she sighed. “Kubrick was a d-director, weird, p-p-possibly m-mad, b-but b-brilliant. Dad says his films make you think—even when they’re d-disturbing you—maybe really when they’re d-disturbing you.” She shook her head and pushed her glasses up her nose._

“ _So your mum is into big rubber monsters at the cinema and your dad is into disturbing movies that make you think,” Jon said dryly. “I can’t imagine why it didn’t work out for ‘em.”_

“ _Not c-c-cause of the big rubber m-monsters,” Rowan muttered at her butterfly embroidered trainers as Zach glared at Jon and smacked him on the arm._

“ _Sorry, Rowan. My grandmum thought I should spend some time with Stan, I’m just bitter and down at parents right now.”_

“ _I w-wondered why you were s-so eager to come to London.” Rowan continued to stare at her feet as if they were the most interesting things in the world. Having seen Rowan’s library at home, he knew she’d seen things far more interesting things than a pair of blue canvas shoes, even with the added interest of butterflies going across the toes._

_Zach nudged her chin up with a finger and smiled at her when her very green eyes flickered up to meet his. Rowan smiled back, though her cheeks were infused with a blush._

“ _It wasn’t_ just _because Stan was half foaming at the mouth when we left,” Jon said. “I like coming to London to visit you—Mum’s no more familiar with the Muggle parts of town than I am. She doesn’t know the best place to get takeaway or how to order Thai or Indian in the language even. When I come with Mum, we see London as tourists; when you take us around, it’s like actually seeing London like a native Muggle. It didn’t precipitate my wanting to visit, just the timing of it.”_

_Rowan smiled again._ “ _S-so if that’s why you come—what do you say to us going and finding some takeaway?” she said. “I-I mean i-if you’re—uh—y-you’re hungry.”_

“ _Teenaged boys, Rowan, we’re not finished wiping the crumbs off our shirts from a meal before we’re hungry.” Jon had linked his arm with Rowan started to lead her out the door._

“ _Oh, my m-mum’s having one of her monster movie n-nights, n-next w-week,” Rowan offered. “F-f-firing up the Super 8 a-and m-making p-popcorn.”_

“ _Just as long as she labels that garlic hot sauce one!” Zach laughed. “Jon whined for like a week.”_

“ _N-nobody said y-you had t-t-to eat h-half the basket!” Rowan reminded him._

The train jostled a little as it went around a turn, shaking Zach out of his reverie. He didn’t seem to have missed much in Shae’s story; she still had Krem by the shirt collar and was shaking him and raving in his face as she recounted the dinner she and Krem had attempted to share for Krem’s seventeenth birthday. The compartment's other occupants – Juliette, Trevor, Claudia, Titan, and Spencer – all seemed to be listening closely.

When she paused for a breath, Trevor tried again. “But I don’t get why he thought Krem was a Muggle-born.”

“The restaurant has a tie policy. I’d gotten a Three Stooges tie from my Uncle Mason for my birthday, so I wore it,” Krem explained.

“You poor thing,” Claudia commented from the corner of the compartment.

“You better not let your housemates hear you say that. You’ll never live it down.” Juliette shook her head.

“Right now I’m down so far in Slytherin, I could resurrect Salazar Slytherin himself and still not break even.” Zach wasn’t sure if her exhale was a snort or a sigh.

“Sympathizing with a Gryffindor won’t bring you up any, though.”

“I’m okay with that,” Claudia said. She turned to Shae. “Finish your story before you strangle your boyfriend—unless this is a weird attempt to do—what do the Muggles call it—mouse to mouse resurrection?”

“Mouse to mouse …?” Shae trailed off.

“Mouth to mouth resuscitation,” Titan interjected.

“Whatever!” Claudia said.

“We really don’t want to see Shae put her mouse to Krem’s mouse,” Juliette teased, “so yeah—what happened?”

“If I’d had my wand, I’d have taken his block off—but then this man steps up on the other side of Krem and the drunken arse and shoves the two of them aside.” Shae said, finally releasing Krem’s shirt and leaning back in her seat – though not before she kissed him on the tip of his nose.

“Oh, wow, a bloke broke up the fight.” Juliette sighed and rolled her eyes.

“No, the wicked part was who the bloke was. We all turned and looked at him and there, green eyes, glasses, messy black hair—with just a little of a lightning bolt shaped scar peeking out from under it.” Shae grinned.

“You’re shitting us!” Juliette exclaimed.

“Juliette!” Zach, Claudia, and Krem all pounced on the profanity. That was one of Juliette’s flaws; she had the mouth of a veteran dock worker and unless in front of much younger students, had no issue with shoehorning in a few of the saltier terms in her knowledge.

“Oh, pish. We’re not at school yet; I don’t have to be an example to anyone, and neither do you,” Juliette said. “Not yet, anyway. Anyway, you were talking about Harry-bloody-Potter breaking up the fight.”

“He had the drunk half-begging him not to put him in lock-up for public intoxication, then complimented Krem on his tie. I wouldn’t have guessed Harry-bloody-Potter would have even known who the Stooges were.” Shae grinned and put her hands behind her head.

“You know who the Stooges are—and you don’t even have any Muggle relations who keep in touch. Harry was raised Muggle, remember?” Krem reminded her.

“I know who the Stooges are because _you_ know who the Stooges are.” Shae smiled at him.

“He paid for our meal too,” Krem said, rather than arguing with Shae.

“The drunk guy?” Claudia asked.

“No, Harry Potter,” Krem said with a tone of wonder.

“I could see it. Harry’s a pretty good guy,” Zach added into the silence behind that. “Rowan’s mum works with him—he brings Teddy by, and even stays sometimes, for monster movie night. He tells her he can’t stay for all of ‘em because Ms. O’Blake’s caramel popcorn will make him fat one of these days.”

“Isn’t he a little young for monster movies? He’s not even at Hogwarts yet—is he?”

“No, he’ll start next year,” Zach said. “But Ms. O’Blake’s movies are less scary and more funny. She takes ‘em awful seriously, though.” He paused and looked thoughtful. “How you can take giant two-headed chickens from outer space seriously, I don’t even know.”

“A mystery for the ages,” Spencer intoned.

“… She calls them Josie and Rosie when she thinks nobody’s listening,” Zach mused.

“Why?”

“I’m not sure—but I think it has something to do with her sister.”

* * *

“… and that,” Vivianne continued _sotto voce_ as she and Sybilla made their way back from the loo, “is how Josie Gorlois and Rosie Yaxley crashed a French Ministry ball and nearly caused an international incident. I thought Grandmother was going to kill the pair of them when the Ministry _gendarme_ brought them home.”

Sybilla was looking at her with an expression of – it wasn’t shock. It took a great deal to truly shock Sybilla, and the ever-embarrassing antics of Vivianne’s mother and her best friend simply wouldn’t cut it. But it was surprise, and something like horror, and maybe even a little sympathy. “Honestly, Vivianne—how did you not get perfect marks in Potions all five years? You’ve got so much dirt on Professor Yaxley; you’d think she’d be trying to stave off the blackmail before it happens.”

Vivianne snorted. “Please. Remember who she’s getting into all of this trouble with.” Vivianne tried not to shudder as she ran a perfectly manicured hand through her long, glossy black hair. She winced as a few strands caught on her ring, an antique silver model with a blue stone the color of a robin’s egg set in the middle. “If I started spreading these stories around, I’d look just as bad as she would.”

“True,” Sybilla agreed. “But …”

She stopped talking, probably because their compartment was coming into view. And while there were times and places to talk about sensitive and embarrassing information … when one was about to step into a compartment full of Slytherins, especially _these_ Slytherins, it was best to shut up.

Vivianne tilted her chin up, and almost without conscious thought, her stride lengthened and smoothened into a regal sweep. As always, their compartment would be full to capacity – and as always, there were at least three people hanging about in the corridor outside, hoping that someone would move or that the compartment would magically grow bigger so that they could slip inside.

Not that Vivianne doubted there would be room for her and Sybilla. _Their_ seats would be saved. If their seats weren’t being saved, then this wouldn’t be the compartment that so many were crowding to gain entrance to.

One of the hangers-on, Trish Abbot, was the first to spot Vivianne and Sybilla as they came closer. “Vivianne! And Sybilla!” she squealed. She had a voice that could break glass—and that was on a good day. “Oh, Vivianne, I heard you went to France! How _was_ it?”

“You missed Blake’s party,” added Trish’s … “friend” wasn’t the word. “Constant companion” was better. Frida Rowle had one eyebrow arched; her arms were crossed over her chest, subtly cradling her breasts to make them seem bigger. “He was so disappointed, Vivianne.”

Sybilla snorted, and Vivianne glanced at her with a raised eyebrow. “You didn’t miss much,” Sybilla replied. “Loud music, drunken idiots, and a lot of snogging. Belle got so drunk that she almost started snogging the couch. I had to steer her over to James before she made a fool of herself.”

“You went?” Vivianne asked, not bothering to hide her surprise.

“Of course,” Sybilla replied. And she grinned. “Do you have any idea how big the Skinner library is? They have books in there the Dark Lord would have killed to get his hands on.”

Vivianne snickered, and with a perfunctory smile at Frida and Trish, she and Sybilla made their way back into the compartment. As Vivianne had known, their seats were still empty. Even Sybilla’s book, a large leather-bound tome with a Latin title, hadn’t been touched – though that was probably as much out of fear of what the book might do as it was out of fear of what Sybilla might do.

Picking up the thread of conversation now that they were out of earshot of the people outside – Frida especially – Vivianne replied, “Sybilla, given how very little it took to get the Dark Lord to kill anyone, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were cookery books he would have been prepared to kill for.”

Sybilla smirked. “True. But these weren’t those kinds of books. Also, the food at Skinner House was _very_ good. The house-elf outdid herself.”

“She did, didn’t she?” asked Belle, giggling opposite where Sybilla and Vivianne took their seats. “I swear; I gained five pounds just looking at the spread!”

“You remember the food?” Cornelia asked. She had a copy of _Witch Weekly_ open in her lap and was flipping through it. “I don’t. I barely remember the party at all.”

“And what a pity that is,” said a voice from the door. Vivianne looked up and let her lips curl into a smile. Blake Skinner was, after all, _very_ nice to look at – tall, athletic, with red hair that curled just so and sparkling blue eyes. “You and Troy had such a good time.”

“Ugh. Don’t mention Troy to me.” Cornelia flipped her coffee-colored hair over her shoulder. “We’re done.”

The first time Cornelia had said that, Vivianne had responded with all appropriate sympathy. By the … fifth time, Vivianne thought it was, it was getting rather old. Luckily Sybilla spared her the task of making a sarcastic comment by doing so herself. “Oh, for real this time?”

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Cornelia growled, though not, Vivianne guessed, at the sarcasm. “Do you know what he did? He—”

She didn’t get a chance to finish. Belle had seen Blake’s companion. “ _Jamesie_!” she gasped, as if she hadn’t seen him weeks, months, years even. She jumped to her feet and somehow, even in the swaying compartment, nimbly ran over to him. She launched herself into his arms, and Vivianne glanced out the window, ostensibly to give them some semblance of privacy.

Vivianne heard a sigh from above and allowed herself to look up. Blake stood near—very near—arms crossed as he beheld her from above. “If only more people remembered decorum,” Blake said, a smirk on his lips and reflected in his eyes.

Vivianne smirked as well, shifting to the right – closer to Sybilla – in subtle invitation. Blake took the invitation and sat, smiling at her as he took her hand in his to kiss. Vivianne let him. “How are you, Vivianne?”

“Oh, well, well—and you?” Vivianne arched one eyebrow. “I hear that you had quite the party over the summer.”

“We did,” Blake agreed. “I wish you could have been there.”

He hadn’t let go of her hand. Vivianne glanced sidelong at it, deciding to let him keep holding it … for now.

She shrugged. “Sneaking out of the house to attend a party is one thing, but I do believe Grandmother would be _quite_ upset if I tried to sneak across the Channel. But …” Vivianne tilted her head to one side, slowly blinking and watching Blake seem to get lost in her mismatched eyes. “Who knows? There’s always next time.”

“There is indeed,” Blake said, his grip on her hand tightening just a hair. Deciding that was enough of that, Vivianne deftly extricated her hand from his and smoothed her skirts, smiling at him all the while.

“I wonder if they’re going to come up for air,” Sybilla murmured, and Vivianne looked where she was looking – across the compartment.

Belle and James were still locked at the lips, only somehow, in the interval, they had managed to make their way to the bench. Belle was perched on James’s lap, and if the kiss got any more passionate, there was every danger that Belle might kick Cornelia.

But just as Vivianne was considering coughing, or egging Sybilla on into making another acid comment, they parted, both out of breath and grinning at each other. Vivianne tried not to roll her eyes. It wasn’t Belle, so much – Belle wore her heart on her sleeve, and if you wanted to be friends with her, you got used to it quickly. It was James. Yes, most of the boys in the school would have been ecstatic to have lean, gorgeous Jezebelle Devereaux sitting on their lap and clearly enjoying herself – but did he had to look so _smug_ about it?

Of course he did, especially when Belle ducked in, kissed his nose, and giggled. Vivianne gave up the battle and rolled her eyes – even if she made sure to look away before she did so.

James leaned back, and Belle leaned with him, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder. Then he deigned to notice the rest of them. “Ladies,” he said, nodding at each of them in turn. Though he frowned when he came to Sybilla. “Er … you know, Sybilla, as a prefect, I am honor-bound to mention that your book is _not_ permitted on school grounds—”

“We’re not on school grounds,” Sybilla replied, looking up and arching an eyebrow at him.

“Well, no,” James smiled smoothly, “but if I were to see it on school grounds—”

“You won’t,” Sybilla replied, and she turned back to her book.

“He’s just warning you, Sybilla,” Belle said. “I know Jamesie doesn’t want to have to confiscate it and take points off Slytherin any more than you want it to be confiscated and have points taken off Slytherin. So he’s just telling you now, so you don’t get in trouble later.”

Vivianne watched as Sybilla stared at her book, blinking. Then she sighed and looked up. “The warning wasn’t necessary. But it is appreciated all the same.” Her lips pinched, she added, “Thank you.”

_Then_ she looked at her book again, but not before she took out her polished walnut wand and laid it on her lap. The threat was quite clear.

Vivianne barely had time to smirk before Trish stuck her head into the compartment. “Er—is there any way we can get in here?” she squeaked. “We’re going to get to the school soon, and we need to change. Isolde has three boys in our compartment, so we can’t go there. And you know how long the line for the loo will be.”

“What? No! That means Jamesie will have to leave!” Belle protested. “And Blake too.”

James glanced at his wristwatch. “We’ll have to leave in any case—Trish is right, we’ll be at the school soon.”

“Jamesie!” Belle pouted. “Then what took you so long to come to see me?”

“It wasn’t what I wanted, Belle, darling,” James said, drawing his hand through her blood-red curls. “But you know I had to meet with the team before I could come see you. It’s never too early to start talking strategy.”

“And it took us bloody forever to find our Seeker,” Blake sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Ugh!” Trish rolled her eyes in a gesture she’d copied from Cornelia. Tall, slim, dark-haired and dark-eyed Cornelia managed to make it look sophisticated and world-weary. On short, “curvy,” mousy-haired and muddy-eyed Trish, it looked petulant and childish. “That Claudia! If she’s going to spend all of her time associating with Creampuffs and Gryffindorks, why should she get to be our Seeker?”

“Because questionable choices of company aside, she’s the best Seeker in the house and our best chance of beating the Creampuffs and Gryffindorks in the Quidditch cup,” James replied. “We probably should get back to our compartment and change, Blake.”

Blake saluted. “Aye, aye, Captain. Lead the way.”

After a suitable interval for James and Belle to – there really was no better way to put it – suck face, Blake and James left. But Trish and Frida still stood outside the compartment, their uniforms carefully gathered in their hands. Frida tried to look unconcerned, but Trish was biting her lip.

And while no one was crass enough to look at Vivianne … everyone was, in a sense, looking at her.

So Vivianne raised one eyebrow at Frida and Trish. “Well, what are you two waiting for? Like you said, we’ll be there soon.”

Trish beamed and Frida permitted herself a smile. Vivianne stood up to get her robes and uniform from her trunk.

The train rounded a bend, and she paused.

Off the in the distance – barely visible against the gray sky and the darkening clouds – was the outline of a castle. As Vivianne watched, the windows began to light up with the warm glow of candles.

_Hogwarts …_ Vivianne smiled. _We’re home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read and left kudos! Hope you enjoyed the first official chapter. If you like, please leave a comment or kudos!


	3. Chapter 2: It's Not Much, But It's Home

**Chapter 2: It’s Not Much, But It’s Home**

For the first four years of Ben’s academic career, Minerva McGonagall had been the headmistress; tall, stern, and rather world-weary by the time she’d been dealing with Ben and his friends, she had still nonetheless cut an imposing figure at the teacher’s table. She had left at the end of his fourth year; the official reason had been that she was getting up in the years. However, Dumbledore had been older, and Dippet older even than Dumbledore. Ben had heard the rumor – which seemed to be backed by the drawn expression that had etched itself more and more deeply onto the Headmistress’s face when he and Cameron were in her office (which had been often) – that it was the approaching ten-year anniversaries of Dumbledore’s death and the Battle of Hogwarts that had more to do with it.

Her replacement, Maxwell Rove … to say he didn’t cut the same figure would have been an understatement. A bald, heavyset man with completely average features who dressed like a colorblind mountebank to make up for the otherwise complete lack of remarkability, you could look right past him without seeing him … until you set your eyes upon his nearly neon blue robes with their embroidered stars enchanted to twinkle, his ever-present acid yellow cloaks, his darker – but still somehow offensive – blue boots worked with dragons and birds. Then you wished you could look past him.

Rove was talking to Professor Flitwick, the kind-as-he-was-tiny Charms professor, who – Ben had to admit – was actually more impressive than Rove and didn’t make you blind to look at him. It had been surprising that Flitwick hadn’t taken over as headmaster when McGonagall stepped down. He’d been deputy headmaster—still was—but maybe he didn’t actually want to be responsible for being headmaster. He’d have had to step down as Charms professor – and head of Ravenclaw, which he seemed to be very proud of being. Plus he’d have to deal with Ben and Cameron more often, and Ben wouldn’t have wished that on anyone.

“I wonder how much weight that chandelier is charmed to hold,” Cameron mused as they made their way to their “usual” spot at Gryffindor table. It was basically the head of the table, by request of their own head of house. Not as a compliment; it just let him keep an eye on them. _“The five of you get into trouble enough as it is,” he had told them at the beginning of their second year. “And your housemates want to kill you enough as it is.”_

As if summoned by the thought, an irritable voice came from behind them. “Whatever you’re thinking, Mr. de Falco, the answer is _no._ ”

Many of the older teachers still wore full, traditional wizarding robes rather than the open fronted ones, more like a jacket, that the students wore over their shirts, vests, ties and skirts-or-slacks, depending on gender. Not so with Leo Lipskit. He wore a Gryffindor scarlet polo shirt and khaki slacks under a simple charcoal open robe. His hair was completely white, though his face seemed to hold little identifiable age. He could have been anywhere from forty to ninety and looked more or less the same. He was scowling behind his close-cropped white beard, his blue eyes predatory as he worked his way past his Gryffindors on his way to the head table. He was accompanied by a metallic _clank, clank, clank_ as he walked, for he carried a cane for a limp. Ben had heard so many crazy theories about how he’d acquired it, though Lipskit had never told the story and no one dared to ask.

But there were canes, and then there were canes. Lipskit’s cane – under any other circumstance – would have been called a broadsword. The light glinted off the steel blade almost warningly, the fluted, gold-tone pommel also catching the light, but somehow less seriously.

The slight sway of Lipskit’s braid – about the only possible frivolity in his entire appearance – seemed very like a finger waggling, warning them against whatever it was that they were thinking about. Lipskit continued to clank his way up before sitting next to another former Gryffindor, Neville Longbottom, who had returned a couple of years prior to teach at Hogwarts; he shared duty for Herbology classes with Professor Sprout.

Once the students had mostly settled, Professor Rove seemed ready to signal to Professor Flitwick, but the big doors at the end of the great hall banged open – and it wasn’t the firsties. It was a tall woman with her dark hair twisted into a style that would have been more at home on a noblewoman done up for a Regency-era ball than an instructor.

Under her somber black (albeit chiffon) robes open at the neck to show off a statement necklace (it left Ben at least wondering what the statement was, though it seemed to be some sort of snake, so likely her Slytherin pride), she wore a vibrant green dress with a progressively sheer silk skirt. By the time it petered out somewhere mid-thigh, you could barely tell there was a skirt there and not just a slightly dragon-pox-y tan line.

No one, not even Rove, made a comment from the head table, even though bursting in like that and hurrying on stiletto heels accompanied by a machine-gun staccato would have at least rendered a “So nice of you to join us,” out of McGonagall.

“What are you thinking?” Cameron whispered.

“Imma missin’ McGonagall, mostly,” Ben drawled back, dragging his accent out as far as it could go.

Cameron grimaced but nodded as Professor Kilduff, the Ancient Runes instructor, waved at the latecomer – Professor Yaxley – and gestured at the open chair next to her. Yaxley looked at Kilduff's other seatmate, Professor Zanetti, and took the seat at the very end, next to Professor Trelawney.

Rove straightened and, with a flourish, signaled to Flitwick to bring the first-years in.

The room moderately buzzed during the sorting, interspersed with brief bits of cheering and applause from each house as a new member was added to the group. After the last kid slipped into place at the Ravenclaw table, Rove stood up.

“To our first-years, welcome. To our returning students, welcome back. For those who don’t know, I am Headmaster Rove. I should like to start with a very interesting announcement before we get to our welcoming feast. Over the summer, a ruin – dating, we believe, back to post-Roman era – was discovered in the Forbidden Forest.”

The buzzing picked back up, threatening to overwhelm Rove’s careful, measured, inspiring-as-cold-lumpy-oatmeal voice entirely.

“As a joint project, in the spirit of cooperation and mutual benefit between the Ministry of Magic and Hogwarts, we will be offering a special class for our sixth and seventh year students. The students will help to investigate the ruins and catalog the artifacts contained therein.”

At that point Rove might have still been talking – but nobody heard him, because the room exploded into conversation. The headmaster was obviously getting agitated, even despite his strong-arm attempt at wounded dignity. Even that, a moment later – when the students were showing no sign of settling – was becoming more wound, no dignity and then a heavy shot of petulance.

“Ahem.” Somehow, despite all Rove’s greatest “wise, genteel headmaster” hits, rendering him, in Ben’s opinion, mere minutes away from jumping up and down like a two-year-old in want of some candy, all it took was a single cleared throat for the students to calm down into wary silence.

Rove glared down the table at the throat-clearer. Lipskit spun his hand to gesture for Rove to continue, unperturbed by Rove’s glare.

* * *

As far as Rowan was concerned, Lipskit was quite possibly the most terrifying teacher on the faculty. (Professor Yaxley might terrorize _her_ , but she didn’t carry a broadsword for a cane. There really was no comparison.) Nonetheless, she was grateful when he got the rest of the school to quiet down. There was something to be said for the power of fear.

Rowan was leaning forward in her seat. _Post-Roman ruins? In the Forest? And a special class?_

“Ahem!” Professor Rove straightened his robes and transferred his glare to the offending students, which was pretty much all of them. “As I was saying …” The words “before I was so rudely interrupted” hung practically shimmering – albeit unsaid – in the air before them. “Certain carefully chosen sixth- and seventh-years will have the opportunity to visit these ruins this year. A dozen students from each of those years will be selected to represent Hogwarts in this fine endeavor. Now, because this will be a _very_ challenging class and will involve walking through the Forbidden Forest on every class day, there will be some stringent academic criteria in place. Every student in the class _must_ have achieved an OWL with a grade of E in either Care of Magical Creatures or Defense Against the Dark Arts. Students must have also achieved at least an A grade on their History of Magic OWL, and if they took Ancient Runes, they must have passed with at least an A.

“That being said!” Getting through a few sentences without interruption seemed to be enough to make Professor Rove start to perk up again. “No students will be penalized if they happened to have not taken Care of Magical Creatures or Ancient Runes – after all, you didn’t know about this opportunity when you were making your elective selections! But we will be scrutinizing academic and disciplinary records very carefully. Still, if you have the grades, we do encourage you to apply.

“Furthermore, I would like to take this opportunity to thank the three teachers who have decided to lead the class. The first is Professor Kilduff of the Ancient Runes department.”

Professor Kilduff smiled and waved. Rowan hadn’t taken Ancient Runes, but she knew Professor Kilduff – _everyone_ knew Professor Kilduff. There wasn’t another teacher in the school who packed half as much enthusiasm and friendliness into such a spindly package.

“The second is Professor Zanetti of the Defense Against the Dark Arts department.”

Professor Zanetti nodded when her name was called and smirked slightly. It was probably a good thing she was leading the class – she was known for keeping a cool head in a crisis.

“And the last …” Professor Rove sighed. “The last is Professor Lipskit of the Defense Against the Dark Arts and Care of Magical Creatures departments.”

Lipskit just grinned. It was the kind of grin that a shark might show off just before biting into lunch – or at least, that was how it looked to Rowan.

“Now, for those students interested, please note that applications can be picked up from your head of house. We will ask that they be filled out and turned in by Wednesday. We intend to announce the composition of the classes by the end of the week and begin the class next week.”

Professor Rove took a deep breath and straightened his robes. “Before the feast can commence, however, I do have a few more announcements to make …”

It was perhaps rude of her, but Rowan’s mind went elsewhere as soon as that oatmeal-like voice started running again.

_A class in the Forest! In post-Roman ruins!_ She bit her lip and stared at the table, excitement bubbling up. _And I’ve got the grades for it … well, except Ancient Runes, but that’s only because I never took that … should I?_

Without warning, Rowan’s vision filled with food – and the room became a lot louder, probably because Rove had finished talking. Rowan jumped.

“Earth to Rowan,” Quill chuckled, taking a heaping helping of chicken from the serving plate nearest to him. “You all right there?”

“Y-y-yeah.” Rowan felt her face heat up (what else was new?) as she started to fill her plate. “Just—just thinking about the c-c-class Professor R-Rove was talking about. Um. He didn’t s-s-say anything important after, d-did he?”

“Depends on how you define ‘important,’” Aubrey drawled, rolling his eyes. “According to him? Definitely. According to everyone else? Not a chance.”

Blair nudged him. “Be _nice_ , Aubrey.”

“Love, I don’t know that you noticed …” Aubrey turned to Blair with a wicked grin and eyes that sparked. “But while I’m a lot of things, nice isn’t one of them.”

“Oh, _stop_ ,” she laughed, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“If you wish.” Aubrey turned back to Rowan. “So, you’re interested?”

She nodded. “It—it s-s-sounds really f-fascinating. I m-mean—my mum t-t-told me all kinds of s-s-stories about the F-Forest …”

“It wasn’t Forbidden back then?” Candice asked, eyebrows arching curiously.

“Well, n-n-no,” Rowan admitted, “but that n-never stopped M-Mum.”

“Post-Roman,” mused Jon. “Isn’t that about the time of Arthur and the Round Table?”

Rowan scrunched down and bit her lip—because of _course_ someone would figure that out, and they’d probably put the rest of the pieces together soon.

Aubrey was the one who replied. “Depends on who you ask.” He shrugged. “I mean—well, _obviously_ Arthur is post-Roman, because I don’t think anyone has seriously suggested that he’s _pre_ -Roman. But when post-Roman—that’s the question. Most of the wizarding records we have suggest that he would have lived shortly after the Romans left but before the Saxons completely took over. And while he wasn’t a king of any kind, that’s really the only period we can put him in that makes sense. Meanwhile, Muggle records are all over the map, and most wizards can’t even get their facts straight.” Aubrey rolled his eyes. “If I hear one more Slytherin claim that Merlin was in their house, I swear, somebody’s getting hexed.”

“Why?” Candice asked as she gathered her peas onto her fork. “I mean, from what we learned about Merlin—ambitious, clever, maybe a bit power-hungry—sounds like a textbook Slytherin to me.”

“Though he never minded Muggles or Muggle-borns,” Jon pointed out. “Old Salazar might have had an issue with that.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the problem,” Aubrey waved his hand. “The problem is that he would have been _dead_ four hundred years or more before the school was founded.”

Candice’s eyes went wide. “ _Oooh_.”

“Yes, _oh_ ,” Aubrey echoed.

“M-m-maybe—” Rowan started, and stopped.

It was Jon who turned to her, eyebrows raised in silent encouragement. “Maybe?”

Rowan swallowed. “W-w-well—you know—n-n-names tend to get r-repeated, especially when they belong to f-f-famous people … m-m-maybe there was another g-great wizard named Merlin—who _d-did_ go to Hogwarts—and his s-s-story got m-mixed in with _the_ Merlin’s. You know. It c-could happen.” Rowan forced herself to shrug before she turned back to her plate.

Aubrey nodded. “Definitely possible, especially when you start adding legend into the mix. Because once you get enough legends muddying the waters, you’re lucky if you can tell your arse from your elbow in the mess.”

“ _Aubrey_!” Blair almost dropped her fork. “ _Really_?”

“Just because you deny yourself the pleasures of swearing doesn’t mean the rest of us have to.” Aubrey batted his long lashes at her. “So—can I count on you to put in your application with me?”

Blair stared at him. “Are you joking?”

“Would I joke with you, Blair?” Aubrey asked, resting his chin on his hand and watching Blair carefully.

Blair looked away and shook her head. “It—I couldn’t. I mean—tramping through the Forest twice a day—it’s hardly … ladylike.”

Now it was Candice’s turn to almost drop her fork. “ _Ladylike_? Jiminy Cricket, Blair! The nineteenth century called, they want their hang-ups back!”

“… Eh?” asked Blair.

“Candice is saying that you’re acting anywhere from a hundred to two hundred years out of date,” Quill translated. “Although, Candice, that’s really not fair—mentioning a phone call and then using a completely different sense of ‘hang up’ in the same sentence. You’ll confuse the wizards.”

“I’m just trying to figure out who Jiminy Cricket is,” Blair murmured.

“Let your c-c-conscience be your g-guide,” Rowan giggled. When all that got her was more confused looks, she said, “Um—character from a m-movie. And um—same initials as J-Jesus Christ. So—marginally m-m-more acceptable to s-swear using his name.”

“Like saying sugar snaps instead of shit.” Aubrey nodded.

“ _Aubrey_!”

Jon rolled his eyes and turned to Rowan. “So … you looked awfully interested when Rove was talking—which is a sentence I thought I’d never have reason to say. Are you thinking you’ll go for the class?”

“Um …” Rowan swallowed and tried not to blush. “I t-thought—well—yeah. I mean—why not?” She leaned back to look around the table. “Y-you?”

“Definitely,” Aubrey was the first to reply. “D’you think they’ll take us all out at once? That would be nice.”

“It w-would be. If I g-g-get in,” Rowan added.

Quill gently elbowed her side. “You got O’s on all the OWLs you took—”

“Except Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts,” Rowan admitted.

“And you got an E on that. You’ll get in.” Quill nodded.

She wished she could feel so sanguine. “M-m-maybe. You?” she asked Quill.

Quill raised an eyebrow. “ _Me_?”

“Yeah—are you … I know H-H-History of M-Magic was n-n-never your f-favorite, but …”

Quill kept his eyebrow raised.

“… Y-y-you’d rather stick a w-wand in your eye, wouldn’t you?” Rowan muttered.

“Pretty much,” Quill agreed. “What about you, Jonny boy?”

“Doubt I’ll have room in the schedule,” Jon shrugged.

“Because you’re taking eight classes.” Quill shook his head. “Do you think Flitwick will even let you go for that many?”

“Can’t hurt to try!” Jon shrugged. “But if Flitwick doesn’t let me take eight, maybe I’ll try out. It sounds like it could be fun.”

Rowan grinned.

“Maybe for you,” Blair said, sitting up unnaturally straight and comporting herself into a posture that was painfully ladylike even for her, “but—I don’t think so. I mean—tramping through the Forest twice a day—and climbing all over those ruins …” She swallowed, but she shook her head firmly – maybe even more firmly than was strictly necessary. “No.”

“And I’m a year too young,” Candice replied. “Although I doubt I’d have time for it, either. My laptop isn’t going to make itself run.”

“So it looks like it’s you and me, Rowan,” Aubrey replied. “Hopefully we’ll both get in.”

“H-hopefully,” Rowan replied, smiling.

_And hopefully they’ll let the sixth and seventh years be in the same class, because if they don’t … unless Zach signs up, my chances of having any good friends in the class are pretty close to zero._

* * *

“So why do you suppose Rove hedged?” Spencer asked, pushing his glasses up his nose before filling his glass with pumpkin juice.

“Hedged?” Juliette asked, an already arched eyebrow curving up even further.

“‘Post-Roman’? Anybody who didn’t sleep through History of Magic knows that the only thing of any magical note to happen between the fall of the Roman wizards and the rise of the Saxon ones in Britain was Arthur. Why hedge and say ‘Post-Roman’?” Spencer asked.

“For the vast majority of students who do sleep through History of Magic?” Juliette’s tone was sardonic.

“Arthur?” one of the first-years studded in near them asked shyly. “Like _King_ Arthur? Like the _Once and Future King_? And _Le Morte d’Arthur_?” Obviously the first year didn’t speak French, because she pronounced it “Lee Morty.”

Juliette drew in a breath, either for a scoff or a cutting remark about the French; her father was a full-blooded Frenchman and _her_ French was flawless. Alas for her, Zach and Trevor both elbowed her in the ribs before she could trample all over the firstie.

“The real story of Arthur is a shade more complicated,” Spencer said as Juliette rubbed her ribcage with a look toward her friends that spoke of retribution later. “At least what we know of it—some of it’s lost in time.”

“He was more like Robin Hood—all things considered—than King Arthur of those stories. It’s a pretty interesting story, nonetheless,” Zach told the first year.

“Oh.” The firstie glanced down at her plate. “My brother, Henry, used to read stories about Arthur to me—he was in the RAF.”

“Was?” Juliette asked before they could shush her.

“He died—this summer.” She turned her head, thick blonde hair falling over her face, though it didn’t entirely cover her swipe at her nose with the back of her hand. “He was stationed in Iraq. There was—a suicide bomber when he was on leave.”

“Oh, I am so sorry—er—uh, kid?” Juliette rubbed the back of her neck.

“Miri—well, _Miranda_ , but only my mum calls me that.” Miri offered half a smile. “My gramma only uses it with Hollie for when I’m really in trouble.” She poked at her chicken before quite obviously forcing herself to take a bite. “So—if Arthur wasn’t a king, what was he?”

“A wealthy landowner at the start,” Spencer said. “A lord; there wasn’t a real formal title system then.”

Miri nodded and took another bite. “So why’s he king in the story then?”

“Same reason they added Lancelot and made him sleep with his sister and have a son with her who kills him.” Spencer shrugged.

“That’s seriously in the Arthurian legend?” When Spencer nodded, Juliette looked at Miri. “And your brother thought this was a good bedtime story?”

“Um, well, I—uh—it _was_ a good story,” Miri said defensively to her chicken.

“ _Juliette_.” The three boys hissed at her, glaring to a man.

“It _is_ a good story,” Spencer said to Miri. “Even stuff that’s a little questionable can add to the story if it’s done well.”

“My gramma says the same thing about her soaps. Usually when she’s telling me how much better _Coronation Street_ used to be than it is now,” Miri offered, though her fork was still hesitating on her plate near her potatoes, stirring them a little.

“Soaps?” Juliette asked. “What does soap have to do with streets?”

“It’s a term for—uh—soap operas, I think,” Zach said. “Really convoluted stories on Muggle telly—clones and crashed weddings and faked deaths and car crashes.”

“You watch trashy Muggle telly now?” Juliette asked.

“No—Rowan likes to tell her dad stuff like it’s not like she’s gonna have an affair with his boss then fake a pregnancy and when they all fall for it, she’ll fake her death in car crash and run off to be a groupie for a Muggle band. Usually when he’s being too strict.” Zach smiled faintly. “Jon asked her where she gets this stuff from—she said from Muggle soap operas and romance novels. It’s almost gotten to be a joke between them.”

“If that’s what happens in these soap things, nobody with a brain would watch that,” Juliette said.

“My gramma has a brain,” Miri interrupted before Juliette could get off on a rant. “She’s all I’ve got now—after Henry died, Mum’s never home; she’s at work or the pub all the time.” The blonde girl shoved her plate toward the center of the table, it was obviously just picked at—and nobody picked at a Welcoming Feast plate.

“Juliette—if you open your mouth one more time, I’ll hex you,” Spencer growled. “Leave. The. Kid. Alone.”

“You know, I really ought to go—um—over there,” the prefect said after looking at the expression on Spencer’s face. And no wonder. Miri bore more than a small resemblance to Marty, Spencer’s little sister, and if this had been Marty, his wand would have been out already. “And um—catch-catch up with uh—her.” She pointed to Niamh, the seventh-year Hufflepuff prefect, and left.

“You—you should eat, Miri. The house-elves always make awesome food, but they really outdo themselves for the Welcoming Feast,” Trevor said, nudging her plate back toward her with his best puppy dog expression.

“Juliette doesn’t always—think in—in tandem with talking,” Zach offered as she pulled her plate back toward her but stirred her veg, rather than eating anything. “She kinda talks now and thinks—oh—next week or so. If it’s not too inconvenient.”

That at least got a little huff that might have been a chuckle or a snort, but it was accompanied by a forkful heading toward the first-year’s mouth.

“So—are you gonna try for the class? You sound interested, Spence,” Trevor asked a moment later.

“I thought I might. I know why Professor Sprout talked me out of taking NEWT-level Astronomy, but my schedule just feels a little empty without it. You two?” Spencer said, before attending to his own plate with a sidelong glance at Miri.

“An archaeology class? Are you kidding? I want to go into archaeology after school.” Trevor shook his head. “Why wouldn’t I apply for a class in it? You, Zach?”

Zach was quiet for a moment, glancing over his shoulder at the Ravenclaw table, eyes seeking out the familiar chiffon blonde hair sandwiched between two much taller, dark-haired boys. He knew that Rowan would apply for the class, her interest in things related to Arthur – or rather Arthur’s sister Morgan le Fay – was so ingrained it was a near obsession. The Gorlois family claimed to be descended from Morgan, _that_ Morgan. And Rowan was the granddaughter of the clan matriarch, but she was _not_ a Gorlois, despite being the daughter of a daughter. When pureblooded Elaine had married Muggle Robert, Rowan had explained to him and Jon one late night during a visit, her grandmother, Igraine, had disowned Elaine. That meant Rowan wasn’t a Gorlois either.

The schism was bitter and contentious on both sides. Elaine had even taken Robert’s last name when they married, something Rowan said was almost unheard of amongst the Gorlois family, and kept it after the divorce – though Rowan said that had more to do with the fact that the Ministry wouldn’t let Elaine use her father’s last name. She’d never been Elaine McDowell according to her records, so she couldn’t “go back” to it post-divorce.

Jon probably wouldn’t take the class; he had a full slate of classes already. More –according to him – than even Flitwick, a man who’d been head of house to scholastically driven Ravenclaw for years, thought he should be taking. If Rowan, Spencer, and Trevor were going to try out for the class … it was worth a shot, even without Jon.

“I think I might,” Zach finally disclosed. “It does sound interesting.”

* * *

“I don’t understand,” Cornelia pronounced. She was on the side of the table that looked out at the other three house tables, and as usual, she was staring at the tables opposite them with barely concealed contempt. “Why is everyone so excited about going out to the Forest and crawling over a bunch of rocks?”

Vivianne didn’t answer, preferring to at least pretend to pay attention to her vegetables. Someone else would answer – and it would be best to see which way the wind was blowing before she opened her mouth.

Trish did not disappoint. “ _Well_ ,” she gushed. She’d somehow managed to snag the seat next to Cornelia, the one Belle hadn’t grabbed, and she was going to wring every last bit of advantage she could from the opportunity. “I can see why the _Gryffindorks_ are so interested. Going through the Forbidden Forest twice a day, without even risking detention for it? I’ll be surprised if the whole year doesn’t sign up.”

“Maybe some of the more annoying ones will get eaten by something,” Frida smirked.

From the corner of her eye, Vivianne saw a flash of movement. But when she turned to look, all she could see was Claudia Churchill, head ducked down and apparently concentrating on her plate.

Vivianne’s eyes narrowed. _Nice try, Claudia … nice try._

But on the other hand … “Don’t say that, Frida,” Vivianne gently admonished. “After all, the annoying ones are the ones who make sure that Gryffindor always stays in last place in the race for house cup. If they got eaten, Gryffindor might actually have a chance.”

“To say nothing about the pity points they’d be likely to get from all the teachers if someone _did_ get eaten,” Sybilla pointed out. “And I don’t see why it’s so surprising that people are interested in the class. _I’m_ interested in the class. In fact, I think I’ll apply.”

Vivianne patted her lips with a napkin, a trick she’d picked up years ago. As long as no one was looking at her too closely, no one would see her smirk.

As it was, Trish’s eyes were very wide as she stared at Sybilla, and even Frida had a carefully frozen expression of the sort that was meant to mask all emotion, but which, to the trained eye, gave away nearly as much as it hid.

Cornelia, however, merely rolled her eyes and looked bored. “Well, of course you would, Sybilla. You’re … _you_.”

“And I’m sure you’ve got the grades for it,” Belle put in, smiling.

Sybilla’s only answer was a smile. “As it happens,” she replied, “I do.”

Vivianne dropped her napkin back on her lap and unconcernedly took another bite of chicken. How many hours had Cornelia and Belle between them spent trying to get Sybilla to talk about her exam results on the journey up? Yet Sybilla had refused to say a word – even when Cornelia eagerly ran down her list of results and Belle had admitted all the exams she’d flunked.

Of course, Vivianne already knew Sybilla’s results – and for that matter, Sybilla knew hers. Their results had come in shortly before Vivianne and her family left for France, so she and Sybilla had met in Diagon Alley for one last shopping trip and swapped scores.

And Sybilla certainly had the grades for the class. Vivianne’s jaw had fallen when she’d counted just how many O’s were on her friend’s results sheet.

“What about you, Vivianne?” Sybilla asked.

“Hmm?” Vivianne replied.

“The class,” Sybilla clarified. “Are you interested? I wouldn’t mind having a friend along.”

“Oh …” Vivianne glanced at her plate and pretended to think. “Well—it could be interesting, I suppose …”

“ _Could_ be?” That was Isolde Macnair, the fifth girl in the dorm with Vivianne, Sybilla, Cornelia, and Belle. “If you didn’t sign up, all of the great-aunts would explode! The future Gorlois matriarch, not taking a class that would allow her to investigate a post-Roman ruin?”

“I see you’ve been talking to your grandmother,” was all Vivianne would reply to that.

“More like she’s been talking to _me_ ,” Isolde rolled her eyes. “She keeps telling me I should take an interest in the family history. ‘You may not be a Gorlois, Isolde,’” Isolde went on in an almost eerily accurate imitation of her grandmother, Vivianne’s Great-Aunt Isolde, “‘but you are nonetheless descended from a line of witches that stretches back to the days of Arthur of Britain himself. It is a line that has attracted its share of intrigue, scandal and calumny through the ages, but that has nonetheless managed to always escape disaster. Take heed, and live up to their example!’” Isolde shook her head. “I think she’s still upset with Grandfather for being related to Walden Macnair.”

Vivianne snorted. “She’s just as related to Brutus Yaxley.”

“Try telling _her_ that,” Isolde muttered.

“… I don’t get it,” Belle murmured. “I mean, not the Macnair/Yaxley thing—I get _that_ , I mean—” She stopped with a slightly guilty glance at Frida, who was attempting not to notice it. “Er—that is, that I get. But … why would Vivianne’s relations be upset with her for not signing up for this class?”

Sybilla’s mouth had opened, but James – sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Belle as always – was the first to answer. “Oh, Belle. I can see why _you’re_ not signing up,” he chuckled. “‘Post-Roman’ is almost always code for ‘Arthurian.’”

“Arth—oh, you mean like Morgan le Fay? Vivianne’s ancestress?” Belle gasped.

“Well, that is what—” James started, before he caught Vivianne’s expression. “… Is true,” he finished.

Vivianne shot him a feline smirk before turning back to Belle. “Indeed she is,” she said. “So you can see why my relations would want me to take the class.”

“But have you got the grades for it?” asked Cornelia, one eyebrow raised.

In answer, Vivianne took out her fir wand and spun it from finger to finger. “Of course,” she replied. “I’ve always been _very_ good in Defense Against the Dark Arts … and as for History of Magic and Ancient Runes …” She chuckled. “I daresay my grandmother would disown _me_ if I hadn’t performed well on my exams in those subjects.”

“Oh, come now, Vivianne, I don’t see why you have to make your exam results a big secret, like Sybilla,” Belle pouted. “You all know how I managed to get a T on my History of Magic exam. And I know I spelled my name right and everything!”

“Who said it was a secret?” Vivianne shrugged. “You two were so busy badgering Sybilla, you never bothered to ask _me_.”

Cornelia’s eyes went wide and Belle’s jaw fell. Vivianne thought she heard Isolde snicker.

“Well then—” Cornelia started, but Sybilla was too fast for her.

“Will you take the class with me, then, Vivianne?” Sybilla raised one eyebrow, though the expression in her silver eyes was rather earnest for all of that. “Who knows who else from our house will bother—and I really don’t want to be left to the tender mercies of the Ravenclaws and Gryffindors.”

Vivianne dabbed at her mouth with the napkin again. “One condition,” Vivianne said.

Sybilla lifted her brows.

“ _You’ll_ be doing all of the difficult homework.”

Sybilla smirked – and probably not just because she had won. Vivianne had said the same thing when she agreed to take Ancient Runes with her back when they picked out electives in second year. And that … had not gone according to plan. “Of course, Vivianne,” Sybilla replied smoothly. “I certainly wouldn’t have assumed anything else.”

“Very well then,” Vivianne replied. “We’ll get our applications from Professor Yaxley first thing tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has been reading! Our beta reader has been making really great progress, so we're going to update twice a week from now on. Look for updates on Tuesdays and Fridays!
> 
> (And if you like what you're reading, leave some kudos or a review!)


	4. Chapter 3: Ring Ring Goes the Bell

**Chapter 3: Ring Ring Goes the Bell**

“Didja _hear_ , didja _apply_ , didja _hear_ who _applied_?” Cameron sighed as they made their way down the hallway. “Okay, ruins, Forbidden Forest, it’s cool—but can we maybe not hear about the archaeology class for the span of _one_ _day_?”

“Probably not,” Booker told him. “Anything that shakes up the routine that Hogwarts has followed since Dippet’s days is big news. My brother told me that during his first year, the only thing that got talked about more than Harry Potter was the Tri-Wizard Tournament. They’ve never found ruins this close to Hogwarts before, and we’ve certainly never been a few good grades away from being able to go through the Forbidden Forest for a class.”

Cameron nodded with another sigh.

“So, Book, you gonna apply for the class?” Ben wasn’t sure if Ringo did it just to see Cameron grimace or if he was genuinely curious.

Actually, knowing Ringo, it was probably a little of both.

“I have a pretty full schedule as it is—and being more or less co-captain of the dueling team, I’m not sure I’d have time,” Booker admitted.

“And …?” Kenny asked.

“What makes you think there’s an ‘and’?” Booker quirked an eyebrow.

“Because there’s always an ‘and’ on stuff like this.”

“Honestly? I think if the class were just Hogwarts, I’d be more interested. But Rove did point out that the Ministry has its claws in this.” Booker sighed and ran a hand through his red hair. “And if anything or anyone could, would, and _will_ suck the fun out of looking through ancient ruins dating back to one of the most famous periods of wizarding history and yet one of the periods we know the least about—hell, the Muggles are certain that Arthur was _king—_ it would be the Ministry.” He shook his head and sighed again.

Ringo and Kenny shared a glance. “You know, Book, you can suck the joy out of _anything_ if you set your mind to it.”

“I know; it’s a talent.”

“What about you two, then? As we’re getting this out in the open and then hopefully won’t have to talk about it again,” Cameron said with an eye-roll.

“Well, I could play it off as not wanting to distract myself from the team _and_ having a pretty full schedule as well—but I don’t have the grades for it.” Kenny looked away from the group as if the statue of Phineas Nigellus Black was fascinating.

“I thought you did okay on your OWLs.”

“Most of ‘em, yeah, but—I heard that Kimmy was in the hospital with pneumonia _right_ before my DADA practical,” Kenny admitted miserably. “I choked hardcore.”

Ringo slung an easy arm around Kenny’s shoulder. “Nobody’d blame you.”

“‘Cept my dad,” Kenny said toward his feet. That was a livewire if there was one.

“Oh, come off—your dad is right with the frequency of a broken watch.” Ringo’s normally friendly, cheerful, broken-nosed face screwed up – probably not the least with things he wanted, yet didn’t want, to say to his best friend about Luca Vasile.

“A digital one, most days,” Ben interjected to keep Ringo from saying anything he might regret. The worst part of Luca’s disdain for Kenny being a wizard – other than it made it so Kenny never saw the little sister he adored – was that every time Kenny messed up on something, every time he didn’t do well, he believed his father just that little bit more.

Ringo and Kenny both snickered, the faraway look leaving Kenny’s face, the I’m-biting-my-tongue-so-hard-it’s-literal one leaving Ringo’s.

“And you, Ringo?”

“I’d like to pretend it were something noble, like wanting extra time for the team or whatever—but, my reason is family too.” It was Ringo’s turn to sigh and look away.

“Your dad would be okay with you being in the class. Sure, he was a Ravenclaw, but that would be _more_ reason for him to give you a thumbs-up for the class,” Booker pointed out.

Ringo didn’t say anything.

“But it’s not your dad, is it?” Kenny asked when Ringo was silent after a long, rather awkward pause.

“No. My mum—she worries about me.”

“It’s not like your mum doesn’t know about what kids get up to,” Booker pointed out.

“Exactly. My mum _knows_ what kids get up to. She dropped out of school, had two kids before she was of age, and is so addicted to coke that six bouts of rehab haven’t gotten her clean.” Ringo shook his head. “I can’t worry her, Book. I know the counselors tell us that it’s not anything we do that makes someone do drugs. But I also know that stress is one of my mum’s triggers. She doesn’t know much about Quidditch, and so I can stay on the team, she knows how much I love it. But—I just—I can’t.”

“It’s okay, Ringo.” It was Kenny’s turn to give a bro hug.

“So you two’ve been quiet, Cam? Ben?” Booker asked.

“They said they were looking at disciplinary records, so even if my grades in the requireds weren’t borderline, there’s no way they’d let _me_ in,” Cameron said.

“I don’t get that—I really don’t. You’re not dumb, Cam—why don’t you get better grades?”

“Why bother? I don’t need grades. I don’t need OWLs and NEWTs; I’m gonna be a kneecapper when I grow up. Who needs _grades_? As long as I can transfigure dead bodies and know enough spells to keep the Quintapeds at bay when feeding them somebody who didn’t pay their protection money, I’ve learned enough.” Cameron’s tone was bitter as raw winter greens.

“Cam, that’s no way to go about your education. Maybe if you applied yourself, your dad would see that making you just another enforcer was pointless,” Booker offered.

Cameron scoffed but said nothing more.

“And you?” Ringo asked Ben when it was clear Cameron was done talking.

“I—need to talk to Lipskit,” Ben told him.

“What—don’t tell me you’re actually thinking of applying for this class? Here I thought we were all gonna leave it to the other dorm and the girls to do that.” Ringo laughed.

“No, I actually mean I need to talk to Lipskit. As in ‘I will see you in a few, I need to go up this stairwell,’” Ben half-joked.

Ringo shook his head.

“Oh, sure, sure, keep it to yourself then! We’ll find out,” Kenny called as Ben turned and headed for the indicated stairwell.

The thing was, Ben wasn’t in a whole lot better disciplinary odor than Cameron was, and while his grades were better – he’d taken eight OWLs and homerunned the series – he didn’t know if that was enough to get past his record. But the class sounded pretty cool, Booker’s commentary about the Ministry aside.

“… Yaxley.” The door to Lipskit’s office wasn’t completely closed. “I am not going to give those kids six weeks of detention for that—and I’ll take it to Rove if you do.”

“Leo, did you hear what they said about me?” Professor Yaxley’s voice came through.

“The sort of stupid crap that teenage boys say about attractive women because sexual harassment is still an abstract concept? The sort of stupid crap I’m willing to bet crossed, if not your lips, then the lips of your peers in your not-so-long ago school days?”

“This is not the place for it!”

“Where would you suggest?” Lipskit asked. There was a long period of silence. “They don’t get to go home and talk with their friends on the phone or in chat rooms or whatever; they’re here, all the time. That means, on occasion, someone will say something in the hearing of an instructor that they shouldn’t say.

“Six weeks of detention, however, is not a punishment equal to the crime. I think the points you already took off in addition to a nice long _conversation_ about sexist dragon-dung is more than sufficient.”

Out in the hallway, Ben winced. He knew that tone of Lipskit's voice and personally? He’d rather have the detention with Yaxley than a “ _conversation_ ” with Lipskit about anything when he used that sort of emphasis.

The Gryffindor head of house continued, “And I will remind them that their instructors are not their _peers_. If they’re going to make comments, look both ways—or maybe better yet, make friends with people who are good at Silencing Charms.”

“Teach your kids some respect, Leo!”

“You first,” Lipskit deadpanned. Professor Yaxley loudly gasped.

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” she asked.

“You gave Frida Rowle a bare week of sorting books in the library for putting Rowan O’Blake in the infirmary,” Lipskit reminded her.

“As I told you—the girls were _stressed_ ; they had _just_ finished their OWLs.”

“Actually, you never did tell _me_ that,” Lipskit pointed out. “This didn’t involve a Gryffindor, remember?”

“Besides, the girls ended up with extra punishment.”

“Not from _you_. Filius did that. _After_ he asked you to take a stand about it,” Lipskit snarled. “I was there in the lounge when he _begged_ you to reconsider—when he begged you to take a stand for once.”

“I just thought then and still do now that there were—extenuating circumstances. The girls made a _mistake_.”

“A ‘mistake’ that put a girl in the infirmary with injuries so bad that Poppy had to call in outside help—or did that part escape you because she’s only the half-blood stain on your precious Gorloises?” Lipskit’s tone dripped acid. “Did you even say you’d _talk_ to Miss Rowle and Miss Abbot?”

“Of course I did!” Professor Yaxley protested.

“Did you actually do it?” Lipskit asked, the acid of before dried to a bored blandness. “Yeah—that’s about what I thought. I _will_ actually talk to the boys.”

“The students are free to believe whatever they wish! It’s not my job to go about changing their personally held opinions,” Professor Yaxley scoffed.

“Including that you’ve got a nice arse for instance?”

“ _Leo!_ ”

“I’m just saying, Yaxley. You’re the first one to defend opinions that run in parallel to your own—and the last one to defend personal opinions that offend you in some ways.” Lipskit sighed.

“Whatever makes think that I—I defend those opinions?”

“Because Filius _did_ beg you. And you still did nothing, just parroted justifications that would be better off in the mouth of your … husband.” Lipskit exhaled. “Just get the bloody hell out of my office, Rosie. Believe me: detention or no, I will make very sure that you never hear any of my Gryffindors commenting on your body again.”

The door slammed into the wall, and Professor Yaxley stormed out, her high heels clicking an angry staccato on the stone floor.

“You might as well come in, Mr. Moore,” Lipskit said from inside the office. Ben exhaled slowly as he entered.

“Sorry, I probably should have come back later,” Ben admitted—wondering why that hadn’t occurred to him when he could have left without hearing the whole conversation.

“Meh. It’s nothing anyone with a brain couldn’t figure out for themselves. And you have a brain.”

“Thank you, sir.” Ben took a seat in one of the comfortable brown leather chairs on the side of the desk nearest the door, opposite from his head of house.

“There something you want to say about this, Moore?” Lipskit folded his hands in front of him.

“Just—I was a little—little surprised.”

“How so?”

“A lot of men I know have pointed out that if Professor Yaxley didn’t want comments like that, she shouldn’t _dress_ like that. I noticed you didn’t.” Ben shrugged.

“A woman’s allowed to dress however she wants. If she likes how she looks and feels good wearing it, it’s not my business to have an opinion.” Lipskit’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“I know. And I agree, sir. Just because a woman dresses like this or that or whatever doesn’t mean it has anything to do with men,” Ben said. “Just that I thought it was pretty—cool—of you. Considering it’s not the most widely held opinion.”

“But I assume that there’s some other reason why you’re here – especially as you usually are only in my office because I call you here.” The Gryffindor head of house leaned back in his chair, which had only arm rests to distinguish it from the “visitors’” chairs – unlike Professor Yaxley, who practically had a throne on her side of the desk.

“I … wanted to ask your opinion on something, sir,” Ben admitted.

Lipskit nodded and spread his hands.

Ben seized his courage and after a sigh began to speak. “I’m really interested in the archaeology class—and I’ve got the grades for it—but Rove did say you guys would be considering disciplinary records—and I have a brain; I know mine sucks. Is it even worth putting in the application?”

Ben was rewarded with his head of house actually blinking—twice, before his expression turned thoughtful. “I think it is.”

“You—do, sir?”

“You’re not dumb, Moore. Your disciplinary record is spotty, yes – but you could argue the case that inside of a classroom, your disciplinary record is spot _less_. Even in Yaxley’s class. She may have reason to give detentions out to anyone who sneezes—but apparently you don’t even sneeze in her class.” Lipskit shrugged. “I’ve never heard anything bad out of Kilduff or Zanetti about you, and Sprout and Flitwick are both fair – which means that the only person truly opposed to the idea of you in the class would be Yaxley. And if it were up to Yaxley, nobody from Gryffindor would get into the class … which is probably why it’s _not_ up to Yaxley. I’m not saying you’ll automatically get in; I don’t have all the applications yet. But I think you’ve got as good a chance as anyone.”

“You miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take,” Ben muttered to himself, though he wasn’t at all surprised that Lipskit heard him. The man could hear a pin drop half the castle away.

“That you do, Mr. Moore. That you do.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll have my application to you by the end of the day.”

“Not a problem. Enjoy lunch.” Lipskit shook his head, and Ben cocked his head to the side. “I’ve got to figure out what to do about the incident that sparked this whole … thing. And for some reason, thinking about Professor Yaxley’s arse has a negative effect on my appetite.”

“I—am sorry to hear that, sir,” Ben offered before Lipskit waved him out the door with what might have been a smile.

* * *

“So you’re applying, Beau?”

Reading over her own application for the fifth time since the morning, Rowan froze.

She was in the Ravenclaw common room, lying on one of the couches with the scrolled ends, taking advantage of the free period she had before she was going to meet Zach. The common room was fairly empty this time in the afternoon, but there were still other students sprinkled here and there.

Slowly, so as not to draw attention to herself, Rowan turned her head.

_He_ was sitting in an armchair kitty-corner to his friend Chris Richards, one of the prefects from their year. His wavy waist-length hair was neatly tied back, his hands steepled before him. And his eyes – as blue as the huge windows of Ravenclaw tower when the sky was cloudless and clear – were thoughtful.

Rowan gulped as her heart gave an awkward sideways beat, and she tried not to blush.

“I think I will.” Beau Ormonde spoke with the lilt and cadence of Ireland, a sound that always made Rowan blush even more when she heard it. He’d taken off his tie and was sprawled on the chair in a way that made him seem taller than he was. Not that Rowan minded that he was short. She was short, too; it meant that they … matched.

But she was getting ahead of herself. Rowan cocked her head to one side and continued to listen.

“I mean, it’s not every day you get a chance to poke around an Arthurian-era ruin—”

“Rove didn’t say it was Arthurian-era,” Chris interrupted.

Beau glared at him and rolled his eyes. Chris just grinned.

“Anyway, I was saying, it’s not every day you get poke around in a … _very old_ ruin,” he said. “And Professor Kilduff will have a part in teaching it, so there’s that to consider. Plus, the chance to study ancient runes in their natural environment? That’s nothing to sneeze at.”

Chris nodded, barely even looking up from whatever homework he was scribbling.

“You?” Beau asked.

“I—”

“Hey Rowan!”

Rowan jumped half out of her skin when Candice thumped to the sofa beside her. She yelped.

And then _everyone_ was looking at her—including Beau—

Rowan’s cheeks were practically on fire as she sunk into the sofa. Did she know a charm that would make the floor open up and swallow her?

No, she didn’t—and even if she did, she’d just fall through to the next floor and end up in the hospital wing with only herself to blame. Again.

Beau was still staring at her— _everyone_ was staring at her—but Beau managed a small smile that Rowan took as reassuring. She couldn’t help it; she beamed back.

Then she turned to Candice. “H-h-hi.”

Candice’s dark eyes were very wide. She looked from Rowan to Beau and back again. “Is _that_ —that’s—?”

“Shhhh!!” Rowan flapped her hands to quiet Candice down. She glanced at Beau—

Beau was talking to Chris again. Rowan’s body relaxed and she was able to breathe.

She turned back to Candice and slowly—checking the room to see who was watching (nobody)—she nodded.

Candice squirmed in the seat and looked at Beau. “Huh,” she murmured. “Well, I guess he’s not bad-looking—but isn’t he kind of stuck up?”

“I d-d-don’t think so,” Rowan murmured. “He’s always been p-p-perfectly n-nice to me.”

“Yeah, but you have low standards.” Candice waved a hand as she settled back onto the sofa.

“That’s not very nice, Candice!” Blair admonished. Rowan barely held back a groan. But she couldn’t groan when Blair came over; she just couldn’t. Blair was too … she couldn’t do that to Blair. “You shouldn’t say someone has low standards. Especially not Rowan.”

“But it’s true.” Candice shrugged. “If someone isn’t teasing her mercilessly for things she can’t help, she assumes they’re being perfectly nice to her. And besides,” Candice grinned, “she’s friends with _us_.”

“C-Candice!” Rowan buried her head in her hands, and this time, she did groan.

“That doesn’t mean she has low standards,” Blair replied, “just that she … well …” She glanced at Rowan. “Everything all right, dear? You’re looking a little …”

“Red as a red, red rose—or a red, red Rowan,” Candice filled in. “We found out who her mystery boy is, Blair! Or I should say, _I_ found out. Rowan, I’m assuming, already knew.”

“Oh?” Blair asked, her eyebrows rising and turning to Rowan. “Who?”

There was no escaping, so, still blushing – blushing a _lot_ , even for her – Rowan admitted, “B-B-Beau O-Ormonde.”

“Ooh!” Blair glanced around the common room – but discreetly – and when she saw Beau, her eyebrows went up again. “Oh, he’s … he’s very nice-looking, Rowan. Do you think he …?”

Rowan shrugged. “But he’s g-g-going to apply f-f-for the class, too, so … maybe …?”

Blair’s eyes went wide. “Oh—oh, yes, Rowan. You—you should try to take advantage of this! … Somehow …”

“You should probably be asking Jon for advice, not us,” Candice said, shrugging ruefully and patting Rowan’s shoulder. “God knows he’s got more experience with boys than the three of us combined.”

“Candice!” Blair snapped. “That’s—don’t say that so loud! Jon wouldn’t—”

“Oh, come off it, Blair.” Claire rolled her eyes. “He’d climb up to the top of Ravenclaw Tower at the beginning of each year and shout, ‘I’m gay!’ at the top of his lungs if that was the only way to make sure everyone knew. _He_ doesn’t care what other people think of him. And he doesn’t care who knows it.”

Rowan shook her head. “Jon wouldn’t d-d-do that. B-b-but … you’re r-right that he doesn’t m-much care what p-people think. He’s b-b-brave.” Of course the minute the words were out, Rowan bit her tongue, because it would take someone blind to see how pinched and miserable Blair looked.

Or it would just take Candice. “Brave? It’s 2008, not 1908. Being true to who you are isn’t being brave, it’s just being sensible.”

“That’s n-not true, Candice,” Rowan said before Blair could look even _more_ miserable. “Not—n-n-not everyone c-can do that. E-even in 2008. S-s-some of us—like m-m-me—c-care t-too much about w-w-what other p-people think of u-us.”

She glanced sidelong at Blair. Blair had relaxed and was even starting to smile.

“You’re braver than you give yourself credit for.” Candice waved her hand. “You told off Frida Rowle last year, didn’t you? You told that bitch to her _face_ that it’s better to have a Muggle father than a crazy mass murderer like hers.”

“Candice, _don’t_ ,” Blair whispered.

Rowan winced. “And ended up in the h-hospital w-w-wing for d-d-days because of it,” she pointed out. “That wasn’t b-b-brave. It w-was just s-s-stupid.”

“It _was_ brave, Rowan,” Blair disagreed. Her voice was very low, and she bowed her head so that her strawberry-blonde curls blocked her face from view. “I know you might not see it like that—and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to do it again—but that doesn’t change the fact that it was very brave.”

Blushing, Rowan shrugged and looked at her application again, trying to remember where she had left off.

They sat in silence for about a minute before Candice, fidgeting, broke it. “Does anyone have the time?”

Blair chuckled, even as she glanced at her watch. “Honestly, Candice, you need to get yourself a watch that works at Hogwarts. It’s ten to two.”

Rowan looked up with a squeak.

“Oh M-Merlin! It’s that l-late?” She straightened herself out and Summoned her bag. “I’ve g-got to g-g-go—I’m m-m-meeting Zach in the c-courtyard at two—we’re l-l-looking over each other’s applications for the archeology c-class before we t-turn them in—”

Merlin, she hoped she and Zach got in together! Zach was easily one of the nicest people in their year, one of the first friends Rowan had made at Hogwarts. And maybe he was more Jon’s friend than hers – they’d grown up on the same island and had been best friends since they were in nappies – but still. He was a friend, a good friend, representing all of the best that Hufflepuff had to offer.

And if she had to choose – really had to _choose_ – she knew she’d take having Zach in the class with her over even Beau Ormonde.

“You know, it’s funny,” Candice said as Rowan flung her things into her bag. “Here you are, going off to meet Zach, the hottest boy in the school – I mean, even the _Slytherins_ all have their knickers in a twist over him – but you’re panting over Beau Ormonde. _Beau Ormonde_! I mean, he’s not _bad_ looking, but he’s no Zach Duncan.”

“Oh, stop, Candice,” Blair tried to laugh. “Rowan can’t help it. The heart wants what it wants.”

Rowan stopped packing her bag to look at Blair.

The words were commonplace, a cliché even. But Blair sounded—and she looked—so sad when she said them …

Rowan didn’t wish she knew why, not really. She and Jon had a good working theory between them. They _did_ know why, more or less.

She just wished she knew how to help.

* * *

“Zach?” Miri asked, looking up at where he paced from the bench that she sat on.

“Hmm?”

“Is Rowan your girlfriend?”

“Rowan is a friend and a girl, but she’s not my girlfriend in a romantic sense,” Zach told her. She swung her feet back and forth on the bench and with one finger traced the carving on her wand, which sat on her lap.

“Oh.” She bit her lip. “Is Rowan okay with not being your girlfriend?”

Zach stopped, turned, and looked at her. “What? Why do you ask?”

“’Cause I heard some girls talking about it in the dorm,” Miri told him.

“About Rowan, or about …?” Zach cocked his head curiously.

“About Rowan sometimes – about pretty much every girl the girls have seen you with a lot of the time,” Miri reported. Her eyes slid past Zach and she smiled. “Are you Rowan?”

Zach turned to see a girl not much taller than Miri, though obviously older, blonde and green-eyed with an ever-present blush coloring her cheeks.

“Y-yes.” She had her head ducked.

“So are you?” Miri asked.

Rowan blinked once, twice, behind her thick glasses. “A-am I …?”

“Are you okay with not being Zach’s girlfriend? I heard some of the other girls talking about you in the dorm.” Miri bounced off the bench; she could almost look Rowan straight in the eyes.

“I—I’ve never really thought about Z-Zach l-like that.” Rowan looked sideways and up at Zach, blushing scarlet. Which was apparently catching, because he too was starting to blush. “He was o-one of the f-first f-friends I m-made at Hogwarts; w-we met o-on t-the train o-our first year.”

“Oh—okay! I see Haley.” Miri dashed off toward another first year. “Oh!” She turned back to Rowan. “It was nice meeting you, Rowan.” And with that she ran off.

“W-what w-was t-t-that?”

“Miri. She’s kinda having a rough time settling in here.” Zach sighed. Despite her heroic effort to seem effervescent and cheerful, Miri’s moods were mercurial at best, and she seemed to have a hard time fitting in with the other kids. “Her brother—who she was very close to—died this summer. And she’s Muggle-born, so not only is she away from home and trying to settle into a new school …”

“Sh-she’s d-d-dealing with c-culture shock and l-l-learning that m-m-magic is r-r-real, t-t-too. P-poor thing,” Rowan said, twisting her hands together. “S-so why t-the curiosity a-about you and m-me?”

“As far as I know, exactly what she told you. She heard some of the other girls talking about you,” Zach answered.

“I-isn’t s-she a little y-young? I-I m-mean for b-being all curious about b-boys and g-girls and boyfriends a-and stuff.”

“Not for being curious about it. Maybe she’s a little young for dating, definitely a little young for being chased out of empty classrooms after curfew—but not too young for being curious I don’t think. Hey, we’re not all Ravenclaws who probably wouldn’t know anything about sex if it weren’t in books,” Zach teased.

“We r-run into s-s-sex other places.” She stuck her tongue out at him. “Some of us m-might e-even _have_ it.”

“So long as it’s not in the classrooms on my rounds—good for you,” Zach teased.

Rowan looked up him, hands planted primly on her hips. “You sound l-like Jon.”

“And you make it sound like an insult.” Both Zach and Rowan turned sharply toward the source of the voice. “How’s my best friend?” Jon reached out and pinched Zach’s cheek—almost exactly as Zach’s Aunt Beth did. “And my best girl, too?” Rowan tried to dodge the pinched cheek, almost tripping over a tuft of grass. Jon caught her—steadied her—and then pinched her cheek anyway. Rowan looked sour.

“Am I?” Rowan asked archly.

“Of course you are. Candice is far too Candice to hold the title—and Blair …” Jon sighed.

“P-poor Blair. She can’t keep on l-like t-this,” Rowan murmured, then looked at Zach with some alarm on her face.

“C’mon, a pretty face isn’t always a front for an empty head. I’m pretty sure Zach knows what we’re on about,” Jon reminded her.

“And I won’t say anything; it’s not my place,” Zach told them both.

“C-Candice would p-probably argue t-the need for p- _place_ in this day and a-age.”

“Just because you _have_ a thought doesn’t mean you need to spew it across every medium you know,” Jon said with a shrug. “She’s had the privilege of not having anything to hide.”

“Certainly t-the privilege of not having to _think_ before s-she s-speaks,” Rowan muttered toward her feet.

Jon blinked, and then he pouted. “She knows who the mystery boy is!” Jon said. “I can’t believe you told her before _me_!”

“Did I miss something?” Zach said as Rowan got that “I’m waiting for the ground to swallow me up, please, please, swallow me soon” look on her face again.

“Rowan’s got a crush—and she won’t tell me the boy!”

“I d-didn’t t-tell _C-Candice_ about t-the b-b-boy either. S-she extrapolated it. R-right p-p-place—wr-wrong—wrong time,” Rowan said.

“And you wonder why she wouldn’t tell you about it—maybe because you’re teasing her mercilessly, Jon.”

“ _You_ are too sweet, Zach.” Jon scowled. “Does he know the boy?”

“Jon, it’s one thing gossip about the boy you like to your girlfriends—it’s one thing even to gossip about it with your male friends who … share your _persuasions_ ,” Zach finished lamely. “The only time girls go around talking about the boys they like with boys who like girls is when they’re—what’s Titan call it?” Zach frowned faintly as he tried to remember what Titan had said – and for that matter, what Titan had _meant_. “Friend-zoned …? He says something about … um … dick in a glass box … break in case of emergency …?”

Rowan was the color of her namesake and Zach was pretty sure he was a near match. Jon just grinned.

“No, I don’t know the boy.”

“It’s not him, is it?” Jon asked in a stage whisper. Zach and Rowan looked at each other, then shared an identical eye roll. “Well, I have to start narrowing it down _somehow_. So far I know it’s not me, you, or Professor Lipskit.”

“And just how do you know it’s n-not P-professor Lipskit?” Rowan asked.

Jon looked at Rowan and sighed melodramatically. “Look at me, Rowan—look me straight in the face.”

Her expression was skeptical, but she did as he asked without arguing or asking why.

“ _Professor Lipskit_.”

Rowan’s lips tightened; her eyes widened just slightly.

“That’s not a look of undying passion crossing your face, my honey-bear,” Jon declared. “So, are you gonna look over applications while I _tsk_ over the chicken scratch that is Zach’s handwriting and those bizarre q’s and the fact that all your periods look like diamonds? I do need to get back up to the tower and find Candice before you do.”

“… Why?” Rowan asked.

“Two words: Memory. Charms.”

“Oh, J-Jon, I am n-not going to M-memory Ch-ch-charm Candice.” Rowan rolled her eyes.

“Says you.”

* * *

This should have been a half-minute exercise. All Vivianne had to do was walk into the office, hand her application to the professor, and leave. But no. Here she was, sitting in one of the elegant (but straight-backed and exceedingly uncomfortable) chairs opposite Professor Yaxley’s desk, waiting while the professor scrutinized her application for the archaeology class.

Professor Yaxley seemed to be reading each word over five times – why, Vivianne wasn’t sure. It was _not_ a difficult application. But she said nothing and continued to wait, keeping even her impatience locked away.

Finally, Professor Yaxley put the application down and surveyed Vivianne with her very green – Gorlois emerald green – eyes. “Well, Vivianne, I must say that your application looks very good. While I cannot guarantee that you will allowed into the class,” she sighed, probably because she wished she could guarantee it, “I will certainly do _everything_ in my power to ensure that you are.”

Vivianne smirked, mostly because it was expected of her. “Thank you, Professor.”

“However,” Professor Yaxley added, “I cannot help but notice that you didn’t mention the family history on your application …?”

Vivianne shrugged. “I have no idea who will be looking over the applications, Professor. But I know that Professor Binns, for instance, has always been very … skeptical of the Gorlois family’s claims of descent from Morgan le Fay. And our method of selecting the clan leader is viewed by many to be … decidedly eccentric.” To illustrate, Vivianne gestured to her mismatched eyes. “And that is the polite way of putting it.”

Professor Yaxley snorted. “Some people have no respect for the old ways – and it’s gotten worse ever since the Dark Lord … well, you wouldn’t really know about that, would you?” she mused. “Merlin, you were so young.”

“I was indeed,” Vivianne agreed, judging it to be the safest course.

“But … yes,” Professor Yaxley nodded. “I see your strategy now: least said, soonest mended. Well done, Vivianne.”

Vivianne simply inclined her head.

“Is Aunt Igraine aware that you will be applying?” Professor Yaxley asked.

“I did mention as much in my last letters to her and Mother,” Vivianne replied. “I haven’t received a reply yet, but that’s only to be expected.”

“Of course—of course. Well, I shall be certain to let her know I am championing your cause in my next letter to her.”

It was only by exerting every ounce of self-control she possessed that Vivianne was able to refrain from rolling her eyes.

“She will be quite glad to hear it, I’m sure,” Professor Yaxley went on smoothly, which only proved how little she knew about Vivianne’s grandmother. “But dinner will be served very soon, so I had best let you go. I hope to be giving you good news by the end of the week.”

“Thank you, Professor.” And without any more ado, Vivianne gathered her things and left – _escaped_ – Professor Yaxley’s office.

As soon as the door had safely closed behind her, Vivianne shook her head. _She’s not even a Gorlois. Why does she insist on pretending she is?_ She made her way to the ladies’ room, intending to wash her hands before dinner. _Certainly, if Uncle Victor had been born a girl, she would have been, but … he wasn’t and she isn’t. And trying to worm her way into the family won’t—_

She pushed the door to the ladies’ room open and heard a squeak on the other side. “Oh, I’m—”

Vivianne stopped dead. _And speaking of people who aren’t Gorloises …_

Little Rowan O’Blake was frozen on the far side of the door, staring at Vivianne with impossibly wide eyes, magnified even farther by her thick glasses.

Not for the first time while looking at Rowan, Vivianne wondered how they could possibly be related. They were cousins; their mothers were sisters. But no one would guess it to look at them. Rowan was short and slight, with chopped blonde hair and her features that might, Vivianne allowed, be considered vaguely pretty by some, but were really only just this side of average. She wasn’t a Gorlois woman in the slightest, and that was before you took into account that she was the first half-blood born into the family – sort of – in generations.

But there were her eyes: wide emerald green, the same color as Professor Yaxley’s. And every now and again, the shy, cringing exterior melted away, and you got a flash of …

Vivianne blinked once, forced herself to look not _at_ Rowan, but _through_ her, the way she would look at any utterly insignificant Ravenclaw who was more at home within the pages of a book than any place that existed in the real world. Then she pushed past the smaller girl and into the bathroom.

Rowan didn’t argue, taking the opportunity to scurry away before anyone else could find their way in.

_Honestly … that girl …_ Vivianne scrubbed her hands, trying to focus on something, anything, that could keep the intruding thoughts at bay. Because if she let the thoughts have their way, she’d be thinking of the last time she spent any significant amount of time with Rowan. _The hapless half-blood_ , Vivianne had called her once, and the nickname had stuck – at least among Vivianne’s friends and those who preferred to be in her good graces.

It had been in this bathroom that Frida and Trish had finally pushed one button too many, insulted Rowan’s father too harshly for the small girl to take.

Vivianne had been trying to mind her own business, but it had been hard to do anything other than pay attention when Rowan had finally rounded on a snickering Frida and Trish and said what was on her mind.

_“B-b-better a Muggle father than a D-D-Death Eater!”_

_Frida had been laughing, but when Rowan spoke, her eyes turned icy. Trish’s jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon, half-blood?” Frida hissed._

_“At least my f-f-father’s never k-k-killed anyone.” Rowan’s hand, still dripping soap, was shaking as she pushed her glasses up her nose. “He’s n-never sided with a g-g-genocidal m-m-maniac! And if he d-d-did, he wouldn’t be s-s-stupid enough to g-g-go k-k-killing p-people on his own s-side!”_

_Frida’s eyes narrowed. She pointed her wand at Rowan. “_ Flipendo _!”_

_Rowan went flying into the mirror behind her. And that was only the first hex._

Vivianne blinked and found herself staring at the sink. The water flowed over hands. The sleeve of her robes had dipped into the stream from the faucet.

Vivianne _tsk_ ’d, finished what she was doing and muttered a Drought Charm on her sleeve. She hurried out of the bathroom, leaving the memories behind.

Or so she hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read, commented, or left kudos. And if you've read and have something to say ... well, what are you waiting for?
> 
> See you on Tuesday!


	5. Chapter 4: Suppose You Were an Idiot. Now Suppose You Were a Member of Congress

**Chapter 4: Suppose You Were an Idiot. Now Suppose You Were a Member of Congress**

Leo Lipskit did _not_ want to be here. Not here, not now. The room was just the lounge, and normally it was fine. He might even have enjoyed a sunny afternoon in this room with some of the people who were in it. Just – not all.

He glanced down the table to where Yaxley sat, a nail file charmed to give her a manicure as she looked disdainfully at the rest of the room’s occupants.

Unfortunately, however, there was really no getting around it. He was one of the teachers who had gotten roped into teaching this class, _and_ he was the Gryffindor head of house, which basically double-damned him. How, exactly, he’d gotten roped in was a bit of a mystery. He was the only instructor at Hogwarts who already taught two vastly different sets of curriculum. He shared duty for Care of Magical Creatures with Hagrid, and he also shared Defense Against the Dark Arts with Zanetti. He taught the NEWT level classes; she taught the pre-OWL level ones. Why Rove thought he needed a third was beyond him.

Maybe Rove thought that because he was _sharing_ his class load with another instructor, he was nursing some free time or something. Or maybe thinking that Rove thought at all was giving him too much credit.

“Well,” Brigid Kilduff began with a bit of breathless excitement as she shuffled the papers in front of her. “Shall we get started? Does anyone need anything before we do?” She looked around.

Lipskit thought longingly of the flask of firewhisky in his desk—but no. He was working, and only the sloppy drank while they were working. Besides, that seemed too much like giving Yaxley an advantage.

“I think we’re good, Brigid.” Flitwick smiled from where he perched on his chair.

“So, I’m sure we all know why we’re here, but I suppose it doesn’t hurt to go over it. So we’re all on the same page,” Kilduff said. “The deadline has passed for turning in applications for the archeology class, and … we need to decide who actually gets into the class now.” She looked around the table and was met with nods, except for from Yaxley, who rolled her eyes, quite openly, garnering a frown from Zanetti. “So, Camilla, um, I was wondering if you might be willing to chair? I have every faith in your ability to keep things going at a good clip.” She smiled hopefully at the honey-blonde Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor, who set down her coffee mug (which cheerfully proclaimed, “I’m sorry for what I said before I had my coffee”), and nodded.

“Why don’t we start with you, Pomona, get our least-likely-to-start-a-fight group out of the way first?” Zanetti said. “We can then work off that sense of accomplishment to soldier through the other houses.”

“I wouldn’t have put it that way, but I’ve no objections.” Sprout smiled and shuffled through the stack of papers in front of her.

Yaxley scoffed, or at least started to, when Lipskit cleared his throat.

“This is already going to be a long afternoon, Yaxley. It’ll be even longer if we have to listen to you scoff after every comment.” Lipskit quirked a brow at her.

“Fine,” she said, picking up her delicately fluted teacup by the elaborate rose-carved handle and taking a sip.

“I suppose I should interject, as Deputy Headmaster, that Maxwell and the Ministry would like to see a balance of students,” Flitwick told them; he managed to even do it without sounding scornful or annoyed, which probably proved that Flitwick was a better man than Leo was. “There are twelve seats in each of the classes and four houses; we should probably shoot for three students per house.”

“I’d agree with that,” Kilduff said cheerfully. “It’ll give a good balance of personalities and—and focuses amongst the group.”

Leo nodded along with the rest. He, personally, figured that most of the more annoying students in, say, Slytherin had probably been kept out by the stringent grade requirements. As for the annoying Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, they could more than likely be worked around. He already knew who was in his stack of Gryffindors, and he didn’t have any real objections to any of his kids who had applied. That stringent grade thing applied to his house as well.

“So you’d rather that we have a balance of students than pick the students who truly _deserve_ to be in the class?” Of course Yaxley would object. She’d come into the meeting with stubborn plastered on her face like a Muggle billboard.

“I think we can find the deserving students _and_ a balance, Tearose.” Zanetti looked flatly across the table at Yaxley, who narrowed her eyes as if gearing up for a fight. “If you would please, Pomona.” That was just like Zanetti: kick the feet right out from under Yaxley, leaving her no way to continue without seeming like a brat. And from the scowl on the Potions Mistress’s face, she _knew_ it.

Pomona laid the applications out on the table with the precision of a divination student looking for a good grade for form. “I have five applications for both years.”

“Let’s start with sixth year and cycle back to seventh,” Zanetti moved. “The sixth years will, if this class is successful, have a shot to do it again next year; the seventh years will not, so there will probably be some more arguing about that group.”

“That makes sense. For sixth year, I have Jennifer MacDonald, Leigh-Anne Traver, Spencer Hood, Trevor Rivera, and Zachary Duncan.”

“All right. And your recommendations, if you have any?” Zanetti asked.

Sprout looked at her applications, resting a thumbnail with just a little bit of dirt under it against her bottom lip. Yaxley shuddered melodramatically, looking at her own spotless nails.

“Spencer, Trevor, and Zachary,” Sprout said finally. “I know that gives me all boys. But Jennifer is taking a rather heavy class load already, and while Leigh-Anne isn’t heavy on classes, she’s involved in practically every club and extracurricular available. I don’t want to see them spread themselves too thin. And I think that the three boys would all add a lot to the class; they’re all very hard workers. Spencer is so smart, and he’s very much a pleasure to have in class. Trevor is … not as brilliant as Spencer is, but he is so sweet, and he wants to go into archaeology after he graduates, so this class would be perfect for him.” She tucked a strand of gray hair behind her ear. “Zach is a prefect, with a good head on his shoulders, and he’s a good influence on a lot of the other students. We don’t know what will happen in the class, so someone who keeps his head about him sounds like a perfect fit.”

“Does Trevor even have the grades for this class?” Yaxley interjected before Sprout could draw breath for any further dialogue.

“Yes, Rosie, he does. He actually has E’s or O’s in all of the required courses for this class. He has a few A’s, like in your class, but Potions is not one of the requirements,” Sprout reminded her.

“Well, I guess I’ve called for objections?” Zanetti said dryly.

Leo hid his smirk behind his own coffee mug, which read, “I can _explain_ it to you, but I can’t _understand_ it for you.”

“Still, I don’t know,” Yaxley insisted.

“It’s not going to change the number of kids from Slytherin who get in,” Zanetti pointed out. “We already established that.”

“And you really want to tell me that there are only straight-O students in that stack of papers in front of you?” Lipskit had to add, his eyebrow quirked skeptically.

“No, but—”

“And grades aren’t everything,” Flitwick added after a moment, at least giving her the chance to combat what had just been said. She shot a look down the table at him. He looked back at her flatly. “As I recall, it was mostly _your father’s_ intervention—a little pressure on the board—that got _you_ into my NEWT-level Charms class. And you’ve done … well enough for yourself.”

Lipskit took another long drink of coffee to hide a chuckle.

“My—it—that—” Yaxley huffed.

“I’ve thoroughly enjoyed having Trevor in my class and was glad to see that he got into my NEWT-level course,” Flitwick offered to Sprout. “I think he has the kind of quick mind that would do well in this archaeology class.”

“Leo? Brigid?” Zanetti asked. “You’ve been quiet.”

“Trevor has also been a joy in my class. He might not be the most brilliant student I have, but he is one of the sweetest,” Kilduff offered. “And that’s important, too: the ability to get along with the other students.”

“And Leo?”

“He’s got the grades where they count, he’s not a troublemaker, and he’s been decent in my classes. I have no objections.” Lipskit stretched his long legs out in front of him and looked at the way the stained glass windows spilled light onto the floor and table.

“And Zachary and Spencer? What about them?” Zanetti asked.

“I agree with Pomona. I think that Spencer and Zachary would be good kids to have in the class. Spencer’s in my Ancient Runes class and he’s just as brilliant as can be,” Kilduff enthused. “And while Zachary’s not in my class, I’ve only heard good things about him.”

“Filius? Leo? … Rosie?” Zanetti smirked at the Potions Mistress. “I believe both boys _are_ in your NEWT-level Potions class. Surely you’d know if they were objectionable.”

“Quit attempting to bait me, Camilla,” Yaxley huffed.

“I’m not baiting. You just opened some—dialogue—before, perhaps seeing things that we didn’t. I was just offering you the chance to do so again.” She smiled sunnily at Yaxley who busied herself with filling her teacup—using charmed cream—probably so it wouldn’t go to her hips or some such rubbish.

“They’re fine. Let’s just move on.”

Flitwick nodded with a smile, and Leo shrugged to show he had no objections. “So, Rosie, how ‘bout we move onto you next?”

Zanetti smiled as the fingernail file went flying across the room, Yaxley’s hands having hit it.

* * *

“ _Accio_ nail file!” Brigid called, waving her wand and Summoning the file to her. She handed it to Rosie with as cheerful a smile as she could manage. “Here you go.”

Rosie took it with a clearly feigned smile and a, “Thank you.” Her tone would have been better suited to any number of other two-word phrases – “Up yours” and “Sod off” both came to mind – but Brigid would take what she could get.

So she kept smiling. When she was young, her mother had filled her head with all sorts of worn-out but useful platitudes, like “You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,” and “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” Brigid still tried to live up to them. But _Merlin_ , some people made it difficult.

One of those people was flipping through her applications. “I have four sixth-years who applied. Vivianne Gorlois, Sybilla Cromwell, Midas Borgin, and Colwyn Priddy.

“And of those four,” Rosie set her hands to either side of the papers, “I would most definitely recommend … let’s see … Vivianne, certainly; Sybilla; and … Midas.”

Brigid’s grin came back. “Oh—oh, I think we should definitely have Sybilla and Vivianne! I’ve had them both in class. Sybilla is—well, Sybilla is brilliant, and Vivianne is so enthusiastic. They’re both delights to have in class – and they’re such good friends, too. Being in the class together will be fun for them.”

For some reason that made Filius open his mouth, but slowly, he shut it again. Brigid cocked her head to one side and shot him a puzzled glance.

Filius waved a hand, signifying it was nothing, and smiled at her.

“I think we can note down what you said, Brigid,” said Camilla, “but we might be getting ahead of ourselves. Why do you recommend those three, Tearose?”

“Well, as Brigid pointed out,” Rosie smiled tightly at her, “Sybilla is, as we all know, simply brilliant. I can’t think of any other students in the school who took _all_ of the OWLs offered _and_ passed them all with E’s and O’s – even ones where she never took the class.”

Camilla frowned and looked up. “I don’t believe Sybilla took the Muggle Studies OWL.”

“Oh, well.” Rosie waved her hand, leaving her poor nail file to try to keep up. “I think she did—”

“I’m sorry, but I proctored the exam, Rosie,” Pomona interrupted. “I would have noticed if she was there. She wasn’t.”

“Well—fine then. But still! Eleven OWLs, all with E’s and O’s – and mostly O’s!” Rosie leaned back with a smirk. “You can’t tell me that’s not impressive. And unlike _some_ students, she’s taking a … practical, well-managed course load for a student with her abilities. She’s got plenty of time to take on something extra, if she should want to.”

“Hmm,” was all Camilla said.

Poor Filius was taking deep breaths, probably because the sorts of students who would get excellent grades and then take an exceptionally heavy course load tended to be Ravenclaws – and Hufflepuffs, too, but Pomona had much more patience for Rosie than Filius did these days. Brigid smiled at him, and he smiled back.

“And she’s not a … _discipline_ problem,” Rosie added, with a glare toward Leo. Leo just grinned. “So I really can’t think of any reason why Sybilla shouldn’t be in the class. Does anyone have any _objections_?”

“Well …” Leo was leaning back, and it couldn’t be coincidence that the slogan on his coffee cup was directly facing Rosie. “I will point out that if Miss Cromwell doesn’t have a disciplinary record, it’s because she takes care not to get caught.

“But that’s not really an objection,” Leo went on, shrugging as if what he’d said was of no consequence whatsoever. “As you’ve made clear, she has a brain. If she’s going to start setting off Dungbombs in class out of boredom, then she’s probably not going to do it in this class.”

“Then I guess Sybilla is in,” Camilla said, noting another name on the parchment before her. “Your other students?”

“Well, as I’m sure we _all_ know, Midas Borgin is of _the_ Borgin family – of Borgin and Burkes,” Rosie started. “Having the opportunity to handle ancient artifacts will only be helpful to his career. And his application was quite … eloquent.”

Camilla looked up, her jaw fallen. Pomona and Filius looked just as surprised. Even Brigid had to admit to being a bit nonplussed. Midas … well, Midas was a very intelligent young man, and she was sure he would get excellent grades if he could apply himself just a little more. The trouble was … well …

He didn’t.

“Can I see it?” Camilla asked.

Smirking, Rosie handed it over.

Brigid was sitting to one side of Camilla, Pomona on the other. They both leaned in for a look.

Camilla scoffed as soon as she saw the application. “This isn’t even his handwriting!” Brigid had to nod in agreement.

Pomona, however, was … _smiling_? “His mother is – or was, before she married – Acacia Parkinson, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is.” Rosie nodded.

“I remember her,” Pomona went on. “She didn’t—well, she didn’t have much of a green thumb. But she had absolutely beautiful penmanship. I’d know it anywhere. I think she wrote this.”

“You don’t know that!” Rosie protested. “Marigold—Midas’s sister—her handwriting is very good! He could have asked her to copy his answers for the application. Midas’s hand is—well—he could become a Healer, with _that_ handwriting, and we all know it! There’s nothing wrong with trying to make a good impression, is there?” Rosie crossed her arms, tossed her head, and _humph_ ’d.

“There is if it makes your teachers think you didn’t do your own work,” Leo said lightly. “But before we make a decision, let’s hear about your other two.”

“Well, I—I suppose Vivianne ought to be next.” Rosie fished the application from her pile and practically threw it at Camilla.

Camilla lazily waved her wand, and the application floated to her and landed perfectly square in front of her.

That only made Rosie scowl more. “Try saying _that_ isn’t in her handwriting,” she muttered.

“It’s definitely her handwriting,” Camilla confirmed, and Brigid nodded along. Whatever—whatever the case was with Midas, it certainly wouldn’t be fair to look askance at Vivianne’s application simply because hers was presented after his! “But tell us, Tearose … why do you think she should be in the class?”

“She’s a _Gorlois_ ,” Rosie replied. “Descended from Morgan le Fay herself! And we all know these ruins are Arthurian, even if Professor Rove and the Ministry don’t want to say so in front of the students.”

Given the many conversations Brigid had had with the researchers and archaeologists over the course of the summer, she couldn’t very well disagree, so she didn’t.

“And even if you _choose_ not to believe that,” Rosie scoffed, as if believing the Gorlois family’s … admittedly somewhat high-blown claims were anything other than common sense, “you know who her grandmother is. Igraine Vivianne Gorlois!”

“The clan matriarch?” Camilla asked, raising an eyebrow.

“The _historian_ ,” Rosie corrected, smirking. “Vivianne’s always had a flair for History of Magic. And Brigid herself said that she’s a _delight_ to have in her Ancient Runes class. As for Defense Against the Dark Arts …”

“She’s good,” Camilla admitted. “Very, very good.”

“But that’s not surprising,” Leo shrugged. “Her grandfather was an Auror—if I’m remembering correctly.”

“Yes,” Rosie agreed, actually nodding and smiling. “He—”

“And so’s her aunt,” Leo interrupted blandly. He took a long sip of his coffee. “You could say it runs in the family.”

Rosie scowled.

“I think,” Brigid said quickly, before Rosie could come up with anything to say (or before anyone else could jump on the Potions Mistress, “I really think we ought to let Vivianne in. She’s got the grades for the class, and … well, like Sybilla, I don’t think she’s a discipline problem?”

She saw that Filius was frowning and wondered if she’d have to reassess that. But it was a thoughtful frown, not a disagreeing frown. “Miss Gorlois has shown … a certain degree of character in the past,” Filius said slowly. “And what issues she may have caused in class have been … well, hardly worth writing home over. I don’t have any objections to having her join the class. Leo, Brigid, Camilla?”

Camilla looked from the application to Rosie and back again. “I don’t have any objections to Vivianne.”

“I certainly don’t,” Brigid agreed.

“If she’s got the grades for it, and she filled out her application herself …” Leo shrugged. “I think we should let her in.”

“Excellent. So that leaves Colwyn Priddy and Midas Borgin – or his mother,” Camilla replied. “Tell us, Rosie, why _don’t_ you recommend Colwyn?”

Rosie sighed. “It’s not—he’s not a bad student, or a difficult young man, you understand. But he didn’t take Ancient Runes or Care of Magical Creatures. And his application … well …” She shook her head and handed it over. “The reason he wants to be in the class is because of some— _family legend_! He thinks that the Priddys are descended from Sir Lucan, one of Arthur’s knights!”

“And just out of curiosity,” Leo asked, leaning back and looking at the ceiling, “why is that ‘some family legend’ while the Gorloises’ tale is just shy of holy writ?”

Rosie glared at him. “Because the Gorloises have proof!”

“Ah,” was all Leo said in reply. “I was just wondering. Do carry on.”

“Colwyn was never any difficulty in class,” Camilla murmured, musing.

“He’s ambitious, and he’s willing to work hard to achieve his goals,” Pomona agreed. “He could have taken my class again this year, and I would have been happy to have him. Filius – he’s in yours, isn’t he?”

“He is indeed,” Filius agreed. “He is never any trouble in class. Rarely in trouble outside of it, either.”

“But he didn’t take Ancient Runes _or_ Care of Magical Creatures,” Rosie protested. “Midas took both!”

“And once, when he was in his third year, Midas attempted to hand in an essay that he most certainly didn’t write,” Leo said. “Only once – I’ll grant him that much. But I think once was plenty, don’t you?”

“You don’t know …” Rosie started, but she huffed and threw her hands in the air. “Fine! If you’re going to be prejudiced against Midas, take Colwyn! I withdraw my objections. But if he gets trampled by a centaur or walks into a room where the runes say, ‘DANGER – KEEP OUT!’ don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

“We won’t,” replied Leo with a faintly feral grin.

And that was that for Slytherin.

* * *

“You know, let’s just get it out of the way,” Zanetti sighed. It came as no surprise that she followed the sigh with, “What have you got, Leo?”

Yaxley probably thought she looked predatory, like a panther waiting for the perfect moment to strike. To Leo, at least, she looked more like a bumble-footed kitten with an overactive tail.

“Tristan Potts, Lucinda Wolf, Carrie Woodley, Donna Graves, and Benjamin Moore.”

“ _Absolutely not_!” Yaxley didn’t even let him get the “Moore” out of his mouth before she pounced.

“Ignoring her, your recommendations?”

“Ignoring me?” Yaxley practically screeched. “Ignoring _me_?”

“Rosie, you were given a chance to give your recommendations without being interrupted. Please give your fellows that same chance,” Sprout said, her face not without sympathy.

Yaxley opened her mouth, a petulant look splayed across it that said she had no intention of giving Leo that chance.

“You do realize that your presence here is a courtesy, yes?” Zanetti asked lazily, spinning her quill over the back of her hand and catching it. “You’ve already presented your sixth year candidates and voted on them. We can call you back to present your seventh years when we get that far.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Actually, Rosie, we can. Would you like to see Professor Rove’s note on the subject?” Flitwick watched her with slightly narrowed eyes. “The only head of house who is absolutely essential to the proceedings is Leo, and then only because he’s one of the instructors as well.”

“You …!” She huffed. “Well, I _never!_ ”

There was a crack just waiting on Leo’s tongue, but for the sake of getting out of there some time that afternoon, he kept it behind his teeth.

Yaxley crossed her arms over her chest and—there was no other word for it—sulked.

“Your recommendations, Leo?”

“Tristan. I know, I know, he’s a klutz, he’s knocked over pots in the greenhouse, accidentally stunned other students and generally is not held in very high regard, but he _is_ brilliant. As long as we’re not handing him priceless artifacts to hold, I imagine he could add a lot to the class. He’s got excellent grades and a good disciplinary record.” Leo slid the application across the table to Zanetti, who looked it over. “He’s taken Ancient Runes and Care of Magical Creatures, and he’s managed not to get himself eaten by any of the menagerie that Hagrid has trotted out these many years. He’s a good hand with a wand in Defense Against the Dark Arts, too.”

“That he is,” Zanetti agreed.

“He _is_ very clever,” Kilduff said, “and so enthusiastic when it comes to new runes.”

“But you _might_ be handing him priceless artifacts, or what if he trips over something and lands on something? No!” Yaxley broke in. “You cannot put that—that klutz in this class!”

“Tristan’s very good in my class as well, probably one of the best I’ve had since Hermione Granger,” Flitwick interjected.

“You—Sybilla!” Yaxley interrupted.

“I don’t presume to tell you who the best students in your classes are, Rosie; don’t presume to tell me. I know what a good student is.”

“You’re just saying that because of that—that incident.”

“I wouldn’t do that, Rosie.” Flitwick’s eyes narrowed, the “even if we all know _you_ would” unspoken but clearly heard.

Yaxley’s mouth shut with an audible click of teeth.

“And you, Pomona? It seems to be your class he’s rampaged in the most,” Leo asked the Herbology professor, who smiled fondly.

“Tristan _is_ brilliant, and he is getting a handle on his clumsiness. I haven’t had to repot a single plant so far this year due to him. I definitely think he’s worth being given a chance,” Sprout said, folding her hands.

Zanetti quit playing with her quill and obviously noted Tristan’s name down.

“My second recommendation would be Lucinda. She’s not got quite the grades of Carrie and is about equal with Donna, but she is more interested in the _class._ I get the impression that Carrie is more interested in the Forest than the ruins, and I don’t want to have to chase her down.” Leo continued, “Lucinda’s got a good analytical mind and can deconstruct a threat or an argument with the same ease as many of your best, Filius.”

Flitwick chuckled.

“I don’t have any objections to Lucinda,” Zanetti said, gesturing around the table at the other instructors.

“She isn’t in my class, but I’ve never heard of any trouble with her either,” Kilduff said with a smile.

“I would go with Lucinda before Carrie as well,” Flitwick agreed.

“She’s always been good in my class,” Sprout added. “Rosie?”

“For a Gryffindor, she’s … all right. I won’t … _object_ ,” Yaxley said. “I would assume, though, that in the interests of the class, you’re thinking Donna, not Moore.”

“Nope. I’m actually thinking Moore.” Leo leaned back in his chair, summoning the coffee pot calmly as all of the other instructors stared at him.

Zanetti was the first one to find her tongue. “Leo—are you _kidding_?”

“No, I’m serious as an Unforgivable.” Leo held up his hand and silence descended on the room. “I am aware that Moore has a reputation as a troublemaker. But every single one of you, bar me until _this_ year, has had Moore in class. Has he ever been trouble _in_ your class?”

The instructors looked between themselves before shaking their heads or murmuring “no.” Yaxley was silent, bitterly, probably because she couldn’t answer “yes.”

Leo sighed and leaned back in his chair, looking up at the scarlet and gold light from the Gryffindor lion as it played on the ceiling of the lounge.

“You ever thought about what it’s got to be like for that kid?” Leo continued thoughtfully. “I have to admit, even with all the times I’ve sent him and de Falco off to detention, I didn’t much until he showed up in my office asking if he should even try for the class.”

“Oh, c’mon, Leo, don’t tell me you’ve fallen for some sob story,” Yaxley interjected.

Leo glanced at Yaxley; he wasn’t actually sure what she saw in his face for once, but whatever it was, it shut her up immediately.

“No. Moore’s never given me a sob story. Moore’s never given me an excuse. Hell, Moore’s never even given me a complaint or lip for giving him detention.” He looked at the other instructors, who all seemed to be very interested in anything except looking at him. “He takes his punishments the same way he takes everything else in his life, on the chin without a word. Which is probably why I never much thought of him when he wasn’t in my office for getting in trouble or what it’s like for him.”

“He wants to be a Curse-Breaker, doesn’t he?” Kilduff asked after a moment.

“Yep,” Leo nodded. “His mum was one.”

“I didn’t know that.” Kilduff’s brows knitted together. Lipskit shrugged. “I—uh—I actually thought he was a—Muggle-born.” She colored deeply as she stared at her hands.

“If he were Muggle-born, why would he be at school _here_?” Yaxley scoffed. “They _do_ have schools in America, don’t they? Half-blooded. It always shows.” She sneered into her cup.

“Actually, I don’t think so,” Lipskit disagreed. “His father’s sister is a witch, and his grandparents were as well.”

“His mother could be?” Yaxley smirked.

Lipskit snorted into his coffee cup. “ _Sure_ , go up to Madeline Corbie and call her a Muggle. Or even suggest she married one. But, be kind and find us a new Potions Master before you do that, all right?”

Apparently Yaxley wouldn’t be doing that, if the way the lingering summer glow left her face was any indication. At first she seemed to only be able to gasp and sputter, and he half-wondered if that wouldn’t be the way to keep her shut up for the rest of the afternoon. “He can’t be a Corbie, I-I-I have met C. Madeline Corbie. If—if she were his grandmother, she would never stand for him being raised like an American Muggle!”

“I’d say I knew it straight from the hippogriff’s mouth, but I like living, too. I do—however—know Ben’s a Corbie because she, on occasion, asks about him. And she’s his emergency contact.” Lipskit shook his head. “I don’t know why he grew up in Texas; I honestly don’t know that he knows. Just that he lived with his grandparents after his parents died, and then with his paternal aunt and her—very Muggle—husband after his grandparents passed as well.”

“Merlin, Ben’s an orphan, I-I had no idea!” Kilduff said laying her hand against spindly chest, the sleeve falling down to partially expose a hot pink and white checked shirt to match the polka dots that bloomed around the hem of her robes. She looked around at the other instructors, most of whom looked as bewildered as she did.

“Back to why I think he’d be an asset to the class and off gossiping about his family situation like a bunch of ninnies.” Lipskit shot a sidelong glance at Yaxley, who bristled. “He’s smart; we’ve got no precedent to think he’ll be a troublemaker in class; he wants to be a Curse-Breaker, so knowing about archaeology would be good for him; and if he’s in class, he’s not out getting into trouble with Cameron. What say you?”

* * *

_Yes!_ Brigid wanted to shout, if only to assuage her guilt over teaching the young man for three years and never guessing that he was an orphan. But that wouldn’t be fair.

“Well … wait,” she said. “Before—before we decide on Ben, what about Donna?” She looked around the table. “She wasn’t in my class, so …”

“Her grades are … borderline, I believe?” Filius asked Leo. “But I’ve seen her artwork. She’s _very_ good, and that’s before she even starts charming her paintings.”

“She is,” Leo agreed. “And her grades are borderline. Honestly? I suspect the only reason she applied is because of Carrie.”

Camilla frowned at her parchment. “And if we already decided that Carrie isn’t joining the class …”

“Now wait just a minute!” Rosie interjected. “It was one thing if it was Carrie against Lucinda, or Carrie against Donna! But Carrie against _Moore_?”

“No.” Camilla shook her head. “No, I’m with Leo. Carrie’s more likely to cause trouble _in_ the class than she is outside it. And we’re the ones who’ll actually be dealing with any trouble she causes.”

“I think …” Pomona frowned, leaning her chin on her hand. “Ben Moore and Cameron de Falco – they’re like the Weasley twins, aren’t they?” she asked Filius.

“All over again,” Filius nodded. “And despite some … rather spectacular events in their final year … at the end of the day, the Weasley twins never meant harm to anyone. And they wouldn’t go causing trouble where somebody could get hurt.”

“And Ben’s partner in crime won’t be in the class. Didn’t even apply,” Leo added.

“So …” Brigid looked around the table. “If—if it seems that Donna doesn’t want that badly to be in the class – and I agree that putting a student likely to run off into the Forest into the class is a bad idea – well, then I’m in favor of letting Ben in.”

“I am, too,” Camilla said.

“You know my opinion,” Leo shrugged.

Filius was next. He glanced between the three of them. “If you three are in favor, given that you’ll be in charge, I certainly won’t object.”

“Nor will I,” Pomona agreed. “Although, for what it’s worth, I agree that he’s a good addition to the class – and who knows? It might even keep him out of trouble.”

“You’re all—” Rosie glanced sidelong at Filius and bit down, literally bit down, on whatever she had been about to say. “Fine! On your heads be it.”

“And so it will be,” Camilla replied, smirking and writing Ben’s name down with what Brigid thought had to be a flourish. “Filius? That leaves the Ravenclaws.”

Filius sighed. “Yes—well, I had six applications,” he shook his head, “so it seems we’ll be disappointing about half of them. But at least they’ll have the chance to try again next year.”

“We can make sure they get top billing, if they’re still interested,” Brigid agreed. “And who knows? If the class goes well, we might even be able to make it bigger next year.”

Leo’s eyebrows went up, but he didn’t say anything.

“Just tell us who you have, Filius,” Rosie snapped. “We do have to get through the seventh-years as well.”

Filius glared at her before taking the applications out and straightening them before him. “Beau Ormonde, Lillian McClain, Owen Wildsmith, Autumn Woodard, Geoffrey Barkley, and …” Was it Brigid’s imagination, or did Filius take a deep breath before he said the last name? “… Rowan O’Blake.”

_Rowan O’Blake, Rowan O’Blake, which one is that …_ Brigid tried to remember.

“ _What_?” Rosie gasped. “Are you—you can’t possibly! _Her_?” She snapped and tossed her head. “She’s as much of a klutz as Tristan!”

“Not really,” Pomona interrupted.

Rosie ignored her. “And she’s afraid of her own shadow! She can’t _possibly_ have the Defense Against the Dark Arts grade it takes to get into this class!”

“As it so happens, she got an E in Defense Against the Dark Arts,” Camilla said, twirling her quill and smirking.

“Well, _that_ couldn’t have been hard,” Rosie scoffed. She was too busy rolling her eyes to see Camilla and Leo glaring daggers at her. “I daresay the fact that she didn’t go hide in a closet for the length of the practical exceeded _everyone’s_ expectations.”

Camilla’s eyes went wide, but it was Filius who reacted. “Now _that_ is uncalled for!” he snapped, banging his fist on the table. It made a much louder noise than the small size of the fist would suggest. “Merlin, Tearose! It was one thing—it was _one thing_ when you were on the side of—of your _girls_! But this—what’s that girl ever done to you?”

That was when Brigid remembered why the name stuck out to her. She gasped. “Wait—wait, Rowan was the girl who … last year?”

Camilla was tight-lipped, but she nodded.

Brigid had been in the hallway, helping with crowd control, when Poppy and Pomona had brought the little fifth-year out of the girls’ bathroom. She hadn’t gotten a good look at her; she had been too busy trying to keep the students from gawking, but what she’d seen … _Merlin!_

She stared at Rosie. “Rosie, how …” She shook her head. “Never mind. Never mind! Filius, why don’t—that is, rather than arguing over one student, why don’t you tell us which ones you recommend for the class? If he – if he isn’t even recommending Rowan,” she said to Rosie, “there’s no point in arguing.”

Leo snorted, and Filius’s eyes gleamed dangerously. But after a moment, he forced a smile. “Right. Well, as it happens, I _do_ think Rowan would be good for this class—”

Rosie opened her mouth.

Leo glared.

Rosie shut her mouth.

“But we can start with the other two I’m recommending – Beau Ormonde and Autumn Woodard.”

“Oh, Beau’s quite good in Ancient Runes!” Brigid seized on his name to keep Rosie from arguing. Still, she watched Rosie from the corner of her eye.

Rosie merely shrugged.

“And,” Brigid went on, “I know that Beau wants to go into translation work when he gets out of school. He’s quite good at History of Magic, too – right?” she asked Filius.

“He is indeed,” Filius agreed. “He also did quite well on his Defense Against the Dark Arts OWL, though he didn’t take Care of Magical Creatures.”

“It’s not for everybody,” Leo shrugged. “Is he the sort of student who’s going to go running off into the woods when we tell him not to?”

“Merlin, no!” Filius replied. Pomona shook her head as well. Even Rosie shook her head.

“Then I don’t have any objections to Mr. Ormonde. Camilla, Brigid?”

“I don’t either,” said Camilla.

“And Merlin knows I don’t!” agreed Brigid. “Pomona? Rosie?”

“If the three of you don’t object, I certainly wouldn’t.” Pomona smiled. “Beau isn’t the best Herbology student, but I’ve never had any trouble with him in class.”

Rosie shrugged, clearly bored.

“Then I suppose that’s Beau settled,” Filius said, setting Beau’s application to the side. “The next—Autumn. Autumn …”

Pomona chuckled. “If Ben Moore and Cameron de Falco are the Weasley twins, Autumn is Hermione Granger!”

“Yes,” Filius chuckled. “She is quite a bright student. She wants to go into the Ministry after school, so this would be an excellent opportunity for her to learn more about what that would be like – perhaps even make some useful contacts,” Filius went on. “And I know she cares very much about History of Magic.”

“I had her in my classes,” Brigid said. “I can see why she decided not to take Ancient Runes at NEWT level, even if I was disappointed when she didn’t. But I certainly won’t say no to the opportunity to have her in this class!”

“Autumn was good in my class,” Leo agreed. “And she’s still taking it. Camilla?”

“I’m fine with Autumn as well. It can’t hurt to have another … strong personality in the class.” She was looking at her list with a faint frown. Brigid wondered why. “Pomona – Rosie?”

“I don’t have a problem with Miss Woodard,” Rosie shrugged. “She … well. She’s studious, insists on proving to everyone else how much smarter she is than they are … but that’s the sort of thing that annoys her fellow students more than the teachers.”

“I wouldn’t call a student _annoying_ ,” Pomona replied. It sounded like her teeth were on edge. “But I don’t have a problem with Autumn, either – in my class or in this one.”

“Very well. So that leaves …” Filius took a deep breath.

“Wait,” Camilla interrupted. “Filius—how about, instead of us getting into a shouting match over Rowan,” she glared at Rosie, “you tell us why you don’t think the other three are the best options for this class?”

“Indeed, what’s wrong with Geoffrey?” Rosie asked. “He’s one of the best Potions students in his year.”

Filius slowly turned to Rosie. “If you say so, Rosie, _I_ certainly won’t argue. But that being said—Geoffrey may be a very good Potions student, and a very good Herbology student,” he nodded to Pomona, “but I think he’s more interested in the Forest than in the class proper. I’m not sure he’d be a discipline problem, but I think his time would be better served with an independent study. Pomona, I was going to ask you after this meeting …”

Pomona nodded. “I’ll talk to Hagrid – Neville too – Leo, you’ve got enough on your plate – but anyway! Between the three of us, we should be able to come up with something, something he’ll probably like better.”

Filius grinned, while Rosie’s mouth gaped and opened and closed like a fish’s. “Thank you, Pomona. Camilla, Brigid, Leo?”

“He got the required grades in Defense Against the Dark Arts, but I think there’s a reason why he’s not taking the class at NEWT level. Leo?” Camilla asked.

“I don’t see any reason why we should have him in the class if he’d be happier with an independent study.” Leo shrugged. “Brigid?”

“He never took Ancient Runes, so …” Brigid shrugged. “I can’t argue much for him – or against him.”

“But if his own head of house has a better idea for him, I think we can move on. Filius?” asked Camilla.

“Lillian McClain.” Filius sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lillian … oh, Lillian. She’s _very_ enthusiastic about—er—everything. She’s already taking seven courses, she’s involved in just about every club … she had a very rough time, last year, trying to do everything. I don’t want to see a repeat of that.”

“But you let her apply,” Rosie interrupted. “If you thought that she was overloading herself, why did you let her apply?”

Filius turned to her with a glare.

“Now, now, Yaxley,” Leo replied. “You didn’t think that – what’s his name – Colwyn Priddy had a chance, did you? And you let _him_ apply.”

Rosie glared. Then she sniffed and turned away from Leo, her nose high in the air.

“Let’s hear about Owen Wildsmith,” Camilla said to get things moving again.

“Owen …” Filius pushed his glasses up his nose. “I’ll admit, I was surprised when he signed up for the class. His interests are … well, he’s a Wildsmith! Experimental.” He chuckled. “I think it’s the novelty that’s attracting him, to be honest. But he barely applied himself to his History of Magic class, and he didn’t take Ancient Runes or Care of Magical Creatures. I don’t think …”

Filius frowned and looked at the one remaining application. “I’ve thought long and hard about this,” he said finally. “Rowan has taken Care of Magical Creatures. Her class load isn’t entirely overwhelming. She has _excellent_ grades in all of the required subjects,” he turned to glare at Rosie, “and while I won’t deny that Sybilla Cromwell is brilliant, Rowan works harder. Rowan’s grades in her classes match her OWL scores almost exactly – and that E on her Defense Against the Dark Arts exam was both the lowest grade she earned and the _only_ grade she earned that was less than an O.”

“Grades aren’t everything,” Rosie scoffed. “What makes you think she won’t go running the minute one of Hagrid’s pets comes out of the trees?”

“She’s _good_ at Care of Magical Creatures,” Leo growled. “And from what I’ve seen of her these past three years, animals don’t scare her. People might, but animals don’t.”

“And given some of the people she’s had to put up with, who can blame her?” Camilla snapped.

Rosie turned to her with a gasp. “Camilla! Well, _really_ —”

“Don’t you ‘well, _really_ ,’ me, Rosie,” Camilla returned. “You and I both know that the only reason you have a problem with Rowan O’Blake is because her mother is – was – whatever – her mother is a Gorlois and her father is a Muggle. She isn’t a discipline problem, she isn’t an academic problem, she has her head of house’s backing – and everything you said about Vivianne Gorlois goes just as much for her as it does for Vivianne! Filius, if you’re in favor of Rowan being in the class, I’m in favor, too. Leo?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of objecting.” Leo grinned.

“Excellent. Brigid?” Camilla turned to her, rapid-fire.

Brigid’s jaw dropped, even though she should have been expecting this. “I—er—” She reviewed everything Filius had said about the other three students.

… But who was she kidding?

Brigid nodded once. “If—if she has Filius’s backing, that’s good enough for me. Pomona?”

“I agree. And Rosie …” Pomona sighed and turned to the younger teacher. “You don’t have a disciplinary reason to bring up about Miss O’Blake. You don’t have an academic reason. Please understand – you don’t have a leg to stand upon. And sometimes, if you don’t have a leg to stand upon, it’s best to just … well, sit down.”

“ _Humph_! Well, you’ll see,” Rosie snorted. “You’ll see. I’m _sure_ letting her into the class will be a mistake. But clearly, once again, I’m outnumbered!”

“Clearly,” Lipskit snapped. “Camilla? Onto the seventh years?”

“Oh, yes.” Camilla licked her lips. “And this time – I vote we start with the Slytherins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 5: Into the Woods

**Chapter 5: Into the Woods**

Even after having seen for himself that he made it into the class – to his shock as well as that of everyone else who looked at the list posted in the common room – Ben half-expected Professor Zanetti to chase him off when showed up in the courtyard. There had been more than a few “I thought they were checking disciplinary records” statements made in Ben’s hearing.

He had thought that, too. And despite what Professor Lipskit had said and his own brave quote of a hockey great, he had thought his chances of getting into the class had been sitting somewhere between slim and none. And he knew a couple of the girls hadn’t made it into the class, so it wasn’t just that there were only three applicants from his year and house.

However, he did have to wonder what exactly had been said in the discussion, because he’d noticed several of the instructors watching him with more-or-less unreadable expressions on their faces. He’d thought he was being paranoid about the whole thing until Professor Kilduff had taken him aside after Ancient Runes and told him that if he ever needed to talk to anyone, if he needed a sympathetic ear, that he could always come talk to her. Professor Lipskit hardly seemed the type to trot out an exaggerated sob story on someone else’s behalf, so whatever he had said was probably factual, blunt, and to the point. Whatever it had brought out in his instructors apparently was not.

“Rove’s got lots of ideas. Most of them aren’t that great.” _Speak of the devil._ Ben had hardly propped himself up against a pillar looking over the assembled students when Professor Lipskit appeared out of the castle.

“Did you even look over the group assignments?” someone asked. Ben couldn’t get a good look at this person; about all he could tell was that the person was a wizard in somber blue robes that were obviously expensive.

“Enough to know he has no idea about how to structure a group if he thinks those groups will work,” Lipskit snorted.

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I’m psychic – ask any of my kids,” Professor Lipskit retorted.

“Headmaster Rove assured me that the groups are a good balance of personalities,” Expensive-Robes Man continued as he followed Lipskit down the small rise to where the students had assembled.

“They’re a good balance of houses; they’re a lousy balance of personalities. He put Miss Cromwell and Miss O’Blake in the same group, for instance,” Professor Lipskit refuted as he surveyed the motley assortment of students. “If by the end of this class you can’t figure out why that wouldn’t work, I’ll explain it to you using small, short, easy words.”

“Oh, Leo,” Professor Kilduff chided. “Mr. Langley doesn’t know the students like we do.” The words “that was exactly my point” were written clear as summer sunlight on Professor Lipskit’s face. “Do you have the restructured groups, Camilla?” she asked, turning to the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

“Here.” Zanetti handed over a length of parchment.

“All right, these look pretty good, thank you,” Professor Kilduff replied. Professor Zanetti mockingly saluted. “Class, if you could come here, please? We have your group assignments and your first areas of study here.”

“Group one: Spencer Hood, Zachary Duncan, Vivianne Gorlois, and Sybilla Cromwell. You’ll be working with me in the foyer/parlor area.” Professor Kilduff gestured toward the empty space near where she was standing. “Mr. Langley will be working with us.

“Group two: Autumn Woodard, Tristan Potts, Trevor Rivera, and Colwyn Priddy. You’ll be working with Professor Zanetti in the kitchens and work buildings. Ms. Rydell will be assisting you.

“Group three: Beau Ormonde, Rowan O’Blake, Lucinda Wolf, and Benjamin Moore. You’ll, of course, be working with Professor Lipskit in the courtyard and gardens. Ms. Caymen will be working with you. And Misters Bellerose and Zabini will be circulating between the three groups.”

Ben moved to the open space near Lipskit that Professor Kilduff indicated with her quill. A moment later, a small blonde girl tried to sidestep a rock, nearly face-planted, caught herself—just barely—then looked up, saw the other three members of the group and stumbled straight into Ben with a squeak.

As he knew who Lucinda was – could even call her a bit of a … casual acquaintance – the blonde had to be Rowan. Beau and Lucinda shared a glance, then looked away as Rowan stammered out an apology. Ben shot her his best easy grin to reassure her. Rowan’s eyes widened slightly, her mouth still moving slightly though no words came out.

“‘Sokay.”

“Yeah, uh …” Rowan hunched her shoulders and stared at her feet.

“Is that going to be a problem?” Ms. Caymen asked Professor Lipskit in an undertone.

“Only if you make it one,” Lipskit said dryly. Wisely, Ms. Caymen said nothing further.

“Class procedure, Leo?” Professor Kilduff asked.

“Right. This class will meet Mondays and Wednesdays from three-thirty to six. As a group we will have left the courtyard by no later than three-forty. I’d personally like to see three-thirty-five; however, we will allow for some margin of error given that we will be traveling as a group. If your previous class is running over, you are allowed to request to be released from class on time to make it to this one. If that’s not possible, your instructors are to send a note down so we can make allowances. If you cannot make it by the time the main group has left—and your instructor does not let us know that you will be late—do _not_ attempt to go through the Forest on your own. We’ll leave something for you in the library with Madam Pince.” Lipskit met every single eye in the courtyard before continuing.

“While in the ruins, please keep to a moderate tone; we don’t need everything that’s been living in the vicinity alerted to our presence, after all. Keep to your groups. We want you to give time to get to know and build a rapport with your group. If there are serious personality issues, we can reassess, but don’t ask to move to another group to be with a friend or any other stupid reason.” Professor Lipskit scanned over the students.

“It should go without saying that you should listen to instruction given to you by the professors and other teaching staff. We’re not saying this stuff to hear ourselves talk, despite what you might have heard from other sources.” Lipskit quirked the corner of his mouth up in a smirk. “If you have any concerns or questions after class, please feel free to consult Professor Zanetti, Professor Kilduff, or me if you wish.”

Professor Zanetti took over after that, giving them a rough layout of the areas they would be covering and handed out some parchment sheets to use as a template for recording items of interest for cataloging. They were also each given a small satchel of tools, brushes, fine chisels, something that looked to Ben like a child-sized crowbar. Crates, string, and marking chalk would be onsite.

After probably twenty minutes of the instructors going over procedure and whatnot, they headed into the forest. Having grown up on the prairies of Texas, Ben had to admit to a bit of claustrophobia once on the path to the ruins. It just didn’t seem natural, the trees flanking them like a haphazard colonnade. Flashes of things running in the forest … the occasional sense of something stopping to watch them.

But before Ben could get used to the forest, they had reached a clearing – and there were the ruins.

The first impression Ben had of the ruins was one of other-worldliness, like there was something … ugh, if there was a word for what he felt, it was just a repeat of other words and none of them were right … there was just _something_ about the structure ahead of them. There was nothing spare or solely practical about the walls. Every bit of it was as elaborate, graceful, and ethereal as it was useful. It was like that shot in _Fellowship of the Ring_ when the camera first panned onto Lothlorien. Carved panels on the walls, niches set behind seemingly delicate arches. Even murder holes and arrow slits were surrounded with intricate scrollwork.

The construction reminded Ben of the summer that they’d gone to visit Greece more than what Ben remembered of Italy, and it was certainly nothing like a Disney castle. However, to abuse the Lord of the Rings analogy further, like the city of Gondor, it was hard to doubt that every step won against this ethereal fortress would be hard fought. It might be done, but it would cost; it would be bought in blood.

For despite the graceful-seeming architecture, it _was_ defensible, or it would have been. In fact a nasty-minded wizard or two probably could have manned the walls with nothing more than some spells and something to drop on attackers.

It didn’t escape Ben that the gate was set _under_ the upper walkway – far enough that to get sappers set in, the invaders would be vulnerable to anything anyone cared to drop on them.

The placement of the statuary also spoke to Ben of some sort of defensive secret, though he couldn’t put his finger on _why_ , exactly. If he’d been given a couple of months, a year’s supply of Adderall, several dozen pens, and four or five reams of paper, Ben might’ve been able to give something of a working theory. But as he had maybe the four or five _minutes_ it took to cross the meadow from the forest to the ruins, what that placement actually meant would be forever lost in “there’s something about it, but fuck if I know what”-land.

Rowan, who had fallen in line next to him on the path more or less by default, seemed to shudder as they passed through the metal-bound gate. The embossing, which seemed to resemble the head of a bird—a raven? A crow?—was probably what had kept the gate in more or less one piece. He offered her a smile. She tucked her hair behind her ear and offered him a wavering lip twitch that might have been a smile. “This p-p-place is k-k-kinda—w-w-weird—isn’t it?” she murmured.

“Fair assessment.”

Beau looked over his shoulder with a bit of a frown, and Ben quirked an eyebrow at him.

“S-s-something h-h-happened h-here,” she murmured, almost more to herself than anyone else. A glint of light from above tried to catch his attention, but when he looked at what should have been the source, it was gone.

* * *

Rowan did not consider herself to be a fanciful person. Oh, she could believe the requisite six impossible things before breakfast – at least, if you used the Muggle definition of impossible, which was a bit more expansive than the wizarding definition. And she saw nothing at all strange about waving a wand and accomplishing things she never could have done physically. But magic, when you got down to it, was rational. It was a system; it had rules. Although its logic might not have been easy to follow for the uninitiated, at bottom, it _made sense_.

That feeling she got? That this place had not been abandoned willingly, that the rightful owner had been chased away – and that whoever had done the chasing was, to put it mildly, not a nice person?

That wasn’t rational at all. Rowan barely held back a shudder.

Most of the rest of the class didn’t say a word as the other two groups hurried off to their destinations, although Zach did look back with a smile and a small wave. Rowan waved back.

That caught Lucinda’s attention, and she shot Rowan a sharp look. “You know _Zachary Duncan_?” she whispered, surprise warring with disbelief.

“Ya know, Lucinda,” said Ben, his very American accent drawing out every syllable until it was just shy of the breaking point, “he is s’posed to be one of the most popular guys in the year. Stands t’ reason he’d know a lot of people.”

Lucinda snorted, but she was grinning. “Pointing out logic, Ben? Tsk, tsk, what on earth will Cameron say if he finds out his second-in-command is using his thinking brain?”

Ben just smiled back, and for a moment, Rowan thought she saw …

That … something … the way the eyes crinkled, the barest hint of lopsidedness in the grin – it was gone before she could positively identify it. But whatever it was, it had been there. It had been real.

Rowan stared at her feet before either Lucinda or Ben could see her staring.

“Boys and …” That was Ms. Caymen speaking, although given the way she bit down on the words, she was probably reassessing whether “boys and girls” was really the best way to address them. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she settled for. “The courtyard is one of the areas we’ve had the least chance to work on. As you can see, there’s a lot of ground to cover.” She gestured. “I’d like you to split into pairs – if that’s all right with Professor Lipskit …?”

Leaning on his cane, Professor Lipskit eyed the four of them and nodded once.

“Right. I’d like you to split into pairs and start looking through the rubble near the west wall. Start at opposite corners and work toward the center. Don’t worry about finishing today. We would rather you work slowly and carefully and take a while to finish than you rush through and missed something.” She ran a hand through her hair and looked at the rubble. “To be honest, we’re not sure what you’ll find. It might just be rubble, and that’s fine.

“Moving on. The reason I’m asking you to split into pairs is because we want to leave the site as intact as possible. To that end, I’d like to have one person in each pair levitating the stones while the other one does most of the looking.”

Rowan took one look at the piles of rubble, imagined herself on them, and felt her cheeks start to burn.

“Anyway!” Ms. Caymen smiled at the group. “Have a look through, be sure to carefully mark down where you find things, but please don’t disturb any of the artifacts. All right?”

Four students nodded. Ms. Caymen smiled again. “Good. I’ll let you sort yourselves out. If you run into any trouble or you find something interesting, flag down Professor Lipskit or me.”

With that, Ms. Caymen and Professor Lipskit stepped back to confer between themselves.

There was a sort of prickle in the air that could only be defined as … well … awkward. Rowan gulped, took a deep breath, and forced herself to speak first. “I’m—I’m actually p-p-pretty good at L-L-Levitation Charms.”

“So am I,” said Lucinda. “Ben, I know you’re fairly athletic – Beau, can you handle climbing all over rocks and rubble?”

“Certainly.”

“All right then.” Lucinda turned to Rowan with a smile that was quite friendly. “So, shall we pick our chosen escorts, or will we make them fight over us?”

Rowan tried to laugh, but she was blushing too hard to make it really genuine. “I th-think—” she started.

“How about we mix the houses?” asked Beau. “After all, it’s not often we get a chance to be in a class with someone who isn’t in our house. Seems silly to waste the opportunity.”

Rowan could feel her face start to fall and her stomach plunged. She swallowed and schooled her expression into obedience. “That’s – that’s f-fine by m-m-me.”

“Fine by me, too,” Lucinda said. “Ben?”

There wasn’t any hesitation. Rowan wondered why that stuck out to her. “Not a problem,” said Ben with a slow, single nod.

“We’ll leave you two to your corner, then,” said Lucinda as she and Beau headed toward the northwest corner of the courtyard, leaving Rowan and Ben to take the southwest.

Rowan barely made it three steps before she stumbled on a loose flagstone. Ben grabbed her elbow before she could fall. “S-s-sorry,” Rowan stammered, pushing hair out of her face. “I m-m-mean—th-thanks.”

“No problem,” Ben said – and he smiled again. This time her stomach did only a small flip-flop at the sight, and Rowan was able to smile back.

They walked to the corner in a silence that was almost companionable, at least until Rowan managed to stumble over a piece of rubble left lying in the path. She caught herself before Ben had to. She shot him an embarrassed smile, underscored by her blush. “I really _am_ g-g-good at L-Levitation Charms,” she said by way of apology.

“Never doubted you,” Ben replied, still smiling – and Rowan got the feeling that he meant it.

Though why shouldn’t he? She didn’t know Ben Moore, but like everyone else in the school, she knew _of_ him – or at least, she knew of Cameron de Falco and his best friend Ben Moore. And the pranks the pair of them and their friends pulled were notorious, to say the least. But nobody said they weren’t nice people.

Given that Cameron and Ben seemed to make a hobby out of blowing up toilets and blowing up Gryffindor’s chances of ever winning the house cup, Rowan figured that if they weren’t nice people, somebody would have noticed and complained about it – loudly.

They got to their corner of the courtyard, and from that point, it was time to get to work. Rowan _was_ good at Levitation Charms, so it was nothing for her to carefully raise piles of rubble so Ben could look and sift through it. It might have even been boring, except …

She couldn’t shake the feeling that something – or someone – was watching her. Sometimes she’d look over her shoulder and see Professor Lipskit or Ms. Caymen looking casually in their direction. Sometimes she’d look and find the instructors looking just as casually in the other direction. Once she saw an auburn-haired, young-ish man watching them, whom Rowan guessed was one of the floating instructors, Mr. Bellerose or Mr. Zabini.

But no matter how many times she looked, she couldn’t shake the feeling. Sometimes, whatever was watching her felt neutral. But once or twice …

Once or twice, she barely restrained a shudder.

“Well,” Ben said, clambering down from the rubble pile, “that’s one pile down.”

Rowan forced herself out of her reverie and looked up. “Was—was th-there anything in there?”

Ben shook his head. “Just stones.”

“Oh—w-well—there’s always the n-next pile,” Rowan shrugged as they walked over to that pile.

“As you say, Pollyanna,” Ben replied with a grin.

Rowan looked up with some surprise. “You—you’ve s-seen that m-movie? Or r-read the b-b-book?”

“Saw the movie—but I didn’t think it was that popular this side of the pond,” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Oh, u-um – I s-saw it when I was l-little. And I t-t-tried to read the b-b-book.” Rowan was babbling and she knew it, but the trouble was, she didn’t know it how to stop. “But it was a b-b-bit t-treacly. Not as b-bad as the _Toadstool T-Tales_ , but … c-close.”

“The _Toadstool Tales_ ,” Ben mused. “Now that’s a set I ain’t ever cracked the cover on.”

“D-d-don’t. I t-t-tried when I w-w-was in my th-third year.” Rowan tried to laugh. “Madam P-Pince barely let me l-look at it. And sh-she w-w-watched m-me like a—s-s-sorry.” Rowan stopped, staring at her feet. “I’m—you p-probably think I’m t-talking too m-much.”

“Havin’ a conversation is talking too much?” Ben asked, arching one eyebrow. “Besides, you can’t stop there. Madam Pince givin’ a Ravenclaw the stink eye? This I gotta hear.”

Rowan giggled. She was blushing, and she knew it, but she figured … well, why not? “It’s n-n-not much of a s-story. She just w-watched me while I r-read it – I think t-too m-many s-students had nearly v-v-vomited on the b-book. When I read the f-first tale, I could s-s-see why. I m-m-made it through three b-b-before I decided I’d h-h-had enough.” She looked up with a shrug. “That’s it, r-really.”

“A book that makes people vomit?” Ben asked. “I gotta tell Cam about that one. Somethin’ tells me there are all _sorts_ of possibilities with that …”

Giggling in spite of herself, Rowan walked with Ben to the next pile.

* * *

“Aren’t you the nominal head of this class? Shouldn’t you have said something?”

Professor Kilduff, though not an instructor that Zach had ever had in class, had always seemed like a very nice woman. To see her continuing to try to walk away from Mr. Langley as he talked to her was almost painful.

“I have found that in some cases the best thing to do is to let Leo be Leo. And he is not without his points on this. I … would not have structured the groups the way he did either,” Professor Kilduff finally said, after it was readily apparent that the wizard was not going to leave her alone.

“But to openly flaunt what you were told!” Mr. Langley protested.

“Mr. Langley, we are allowed some degree of autonomy. We discussed this among ourselves, and _all_ of us believed that the group structure could use some tweaking.” She sighed. “Basically, doing it this way means we don’t have to restructure the groups in a week when it’s obvious that this student and that student do not now nor will they ever get along. And given the fact that we _are_ in the middle of the Forbidden Forest in a relatively small number, it prevents the fights that might call attention from things we do not wish attention from.”

Mr. Langley huffed, but Sybilla gestured to Professor Kilduff, and she dashed off with an expression that might have been called one of relief. Zach turned his attention back to the brush he was dusting a mosaic with. He tried to be like his mother: if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. Always give people the benefit of the doubt. Still, anyone who would put Rowan in a group with Sybilla and anyone who would defend the person who did so probably didn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt. Even if Sybilla was a whole helluva lot nicer once you got to know her, putting the one of the shyest girls in the school in the same group as her seemed like a really bad idea—at least to Zach.

Zach looked around the foyer at the ruins. Instinctively, you just _knew_ that the original builder had been a witch or wizard of substantial power. There was the fountain, of course. The overall appearance of the ruins was Greek-ish, but there were definitely mixed genres. The reflection pool, in fact the entire foyer, was much more Roman than Greek, with the huge, now-dry pool at the center, a beautiful statue of a woman holding—something? (Whatever it was, it was long gone. But if you’d held a wand at Zach, he’d have guessed maybe a baby, going by the content of the murals.) A large, now headless, bird sat on one shoulder. The statue was dressed rather like a cross between a Roman matron and a battlemaiden. A shield rested against her leg; a graceful sword was tucked carelessly into her belt. Her expression was one of mirth and joy; she seemed to be laughing at whatever no longer was in her arms.

Again, this was just a guess, but he would have said that the statue had been modeled after a real woman – maybe the builder of this ruin, maybe someone who was important to them. There were little things that didn’t necessarily add anything to the statue itself, the bird-like cock of the head, a hint of a dimple in one cheek, the way the sword was informally tucked, not properly sheathed. They all seemed to hint at a real person, someone with personality, not a mythical figure portrayed just for the beauty of it.

Around her was a tumble of animals supporting vases that would have once spilled water into the pool, which was surrounded by fancifully-carved marble benches. They were surprisingly good shape for their age; though they were probably carved by magic, so maybe that was the answer. In fact, if you narrowed your eyes or simply dimmed the enchanted lamps –ignoring where one of the bespelled glass panels had shattered and spilled a determined vine down one wall, the cracks in the walls, the empty pool – the whole foyer could have graced a still lived-in house.

All it really would have needed was a good scrubbing and a few cushions.

He and Spencer were working on one of the mosaics, this one featuring Rhea tricking Cronus with the rock. As for the other half of their group, Sybilla was keeping Professor Kilduff occupied by asking questions even Zach was sure that she knew the answers to. The smirk on her face, there for just a second when Langley looked disgruntled, was confirmation enough in Zach’s mind.

While the Ancient Runes professor was probably the teacher best suited to working with Mr. Langley – Lipskit, for instance, probably would have skewered him twice over by now – Zach wasn’t entirely certain that Sybilla was the best student to be in the group with him. He mostly knew her by reputation, and he knew how far off opinion could be. But a few things seemed to be bearing out of her reputation and into reality. Like her not suffering fools gladly.

Maybe Langley was a fool, maybe he wasn’t, but Sybilla did have a reputation for a broad stroke on the definition of fool. Anyone who took the headmaster’s word as law simply because he _was_ the headmaster might well fit in it.

So far, there was little out of Sybilla’s companion. Vivianne was also someone Zach knew only by what “they” said. The beautiful scion of a powerful, wealthy family, she seemed to have it all. Maybe Zach was just kidding himself, but she had always struck him as somewhat—sad—as if the facade she showed the world was just that: a facade, a false front that decorated an interior vastly unlike the exterior.

Still, she seemed happy enough brushing dust from the other mosaic. In fact, she seemed to almost have to shake herself a couple of times—as if somehow she were _too_ comfortable here. Zach couldn’t exactly relate to that.

He wasn’t creeped out by the ruins, like Rowan had been. Or at least it was the ruins that Zach thought had been bothering Rowan when he’d last glanced at her and her group across the courtyard. While loud, boisterous, thoroughly American Ben Moore was probably not anyone’s first choice of companion for shy, retiring little Rowan, no one—not even the Slytherins who were the first to jump at a flaw in Gryffindors—had ever really accused him of being unkind.

Zach didn’t really know Lucinda Wolf, but Beau was Rowan’s fellow Ravenclaw. And if Jon’s info was good – which it usually was, he shared that trait with Zach’s Aunt Beth – he was a fellow Ravenclaw that Rowan might have been even more than just tolerant of.

But he’d admit that there was a feeling of … unwelcome here. Like the ruins themselves knew that he didn’t belong here. It was odd.

“Ah, Julien.” Mr. Langley smiled one of the roving aides who had just found his way into the foyer. “Perhaps you could help Miss Cromwell, who seems to have forgotten how to use her common sense, while I confer with Professor Kilduff about the film processing.”

“Common sense ain’t common,” Spencer muttered to himself. Mr. Langley narrowed his hazel eyes at Spencer.

“If you’re going to comment on other people’s private conversations, Mister—” He trailed off as if realizing that he had no idea which student, exactly, Spencer was.

“Hood,” Spencer provided with a tight smile.

“Mr. Hood—at least use proper English to do it.”

“It’s a _quote,_ Mr. Langley.” Spencer said the name in a way better suited to “you ass” than a given name. Mr. Langley bristled. “I didn’t come up with it, and to use ‘is not’ would be to misquote Will Rogers.” He shot a look over his shoulder, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I should think you would have more respect for accuracy in this case than the language.”

“Will Rogers—he was a Muggle, wasn’t he?” Sybilla asked curiously, giving Spencer a once over.

“Is he one of those—er—Muggle superheroes?” Mr. Langley grimaced.

“That would be _Steve Rogers._ No, Will Rogers was a Muggle actor, humorist, and social commentator. Very interesting man,” Spencer told him.

“He was a Muggle,” Mr. Langley seemed to dismiss.

“And to assume that Muggles had no wisdom in the collective of them is willful stupidity, Mr. Langley.” Spencer glared at the mosaic, his night-sky violet eyes turning even darker. “In fact, you could speculate that Muggles have to have things like wisdom and common sense—they don’t have the luxury of having magic to keep them alive.”

* * *

Vivianne’s eyebrows went up and up. _So I suppose we know who the Muggle-lover in the group is._ Of course Sybilla was still giving Spencer an appraising glance – but that was Sybilla all over. Anyone who gave a fool what-for was, if not guaranteed a spot in her good books, at least in the running for one.

And this Mr. Langley was a fool. She’d heard Lipskit complaining about the original composition of the groups. Sybilla, in the same group with the hapless half-blood? Didn’t Rove know that snakes ate birds?

Of course Mr. Langley wouldn’t know that … and perhaps he had confused mere authority with actual leadership. Professor Rove might have the authority to set the groups, but apparently he hadn’t commanded his teachers’ respect enough that they didn’t change the groups at the first opportunity.

Vivianne sighed under her breath. They wouldn’t have tried that back when Professor McGonagall was Headmistress. Of course, Professor McGonagall wouldn’t have put Sybilla in the same group with the hapless half-blood – and who knew how many other elementary mistakes Rove had made.

Mr. Langley, however, seemed to be under the impression that all headmasters were created equal – or ought to be respected equally – which was silly, but that showed how much he knew.

_Not much,_ Vivianne thought with a smirk and turned back to her mosaic.

She didn’t know why, but focusing on the mosaic calmed her. Maybe it was the scene. It wasn’t from any myth Vivianne recognized. It was just a picture of Demeter – she could tell that by the wreath of wheat the woman in the chiton was wearing – with a little girl. Persephone, probably, to judge by the flowers in her hair. They were …

Well, they were making daisy chains.

It was a cute scene, although Vivianne couldn’t ever remember seeing one like it. Most depictions she saw of Demeter and Persephone showed the latter being dragged off to the Underworld by Hades. Maybe there was the occasional scene that showed Persephone coming back in the springtime. But this? Before the rape, before the story even properly began?

“Is something wrong, Mademoiselle?” asked a voice from slightly behind her, and Vivianne barely avoided jumping.

It was at that point she realized that she hadn’t been cleaning.

Still, she recognized the voice, so she turned with a slight smile. “Not at all, Monsieur Bellerose,” she replied. “I was just woolgathering.”

Sybilla turned to her without a word, but her silver eyes were narrowed just this side of dangerously. Even the two Hufflepuffs – sarcastic Spencer and handsome Zachary – were looking at her. And so where Professor Kilduff and Mr. Langley.

She realized what she had said – _Monsieur_. Not Mister.

So before anyone could ask, she inclined her head and added, “And it’s very nice to see you again, Monsieur.”

“The same to you, Mademoiselle Gorlois,” replied Monsieur Bellerose. He smiled. It was, Vivianne supposed, a nice enough smile – boyish and effortlessly charming. Not quite as … smarmy as some Frenchmen’s smiles.

“You two know each other?” barked Mr. Langley. Professor Kilduff winced.

“Yes?” replied Monsieur Bellerose, sounding honestly puzzled. And why shouldn’t he be? Since when was knowing someone a cause for that kind of barking? “I met Mademoiselle Gorlois at the villa of her uncle, this summer …”

“Victor Yaxley,” Vivianne filled in, raising an eyebrow at Mr. Langley. “My grandmother’s brother.”

It worked. Victor Yaxley had retired– well, been forced out – from the Ministry a decade ago, but his name still meant something to the wizards and witches who used to work there. He hadn’t been badly regarded, not really. He’d just …

_He supported Thicknesse’s puppet regime with a bit too much enthusiasm, and though they couldn’t pin anything illegal on him, everybody knew bloody well what side he’d been on,_ Vivianne thought in a voice that sounded much like her grandmother’s. Even the “bloody well.” Igraine Gorlois did not mince words when it came to her brother.

Vivianne forced those thoughts down before they could lead her anywhere she didn’t want to go in front of an audience.

Mr. Langley’s eyes were wide, and even Professor Kilduff looked surprised – probably because she knew who Professor Yaxley’s father was. Too late to worry about that now. “Er, well—yes. Of course. I’m aware that Mr. Yaxley has always been … interested in antiquities.”

“Yes,” said Monsieur Bellerose with a pleasant smile. “In any case, Mademoiselle – welcome to the class. I hope you will enjoy it.”

“I hope so, too,” said Vivianne. With one last smile and incline of his head, Monsieur Bellerose walked off to confer with the Professor Kilduff and Mr. Langley.

Waiting only until the adults was out of earshot, Sybilla murmured. “So … why is he making nice to your uncle and not your grandmother?”

“Grandmother is interested in documents. Uncle Victor has … stuff,” Vivianne replied, waving her hand vaguely. Her uncle had been posted in many different countries during his time in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and somehow he had always managed to come home with several objects that probably ought not to have left that country. “Besides,” she added, pitching her voice lower, “Monsieur Bellerose _is_ foreign. How is he to know that getting in with Uncle Victor won’t win him any points with Grandmother?”

Sybilla snorted. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Vivianne snickered, then, feeling eyes on her, turned her head. Spencer had been watching them. He met her eyes for a fraction of a second, smiled lightly, and turned back to his mosaic as if there hadn’t been anything unusual about the exchange.

Zachary, Vivianne noticed, was determinedly not looking at them. Too determinedly.

Vivianne let herself raise one eyebrow before she turned back to her work.

But as she worked, she thought. Why, she wondered, had the professors put the four of them in a group together? Was it just to make sure that neither she nor Sybilla ended up in a group with any of the Gryffindors? They weren’t quite as ready with their wands as some of their housemates, but Gryffindors could be uncommonly provoking. She probably would have been throwing hexes before a week was out if she’d been in Lucinda Wolf’s group – and Ben Moore! When he wasn’t murdering the mother tongue, he was making frogs rain down from the ceiling or blowing up toilets. Tristan Potts was, she supposed, not as annoying as some of the others, but his clumsiness could try the patience of a saint.

_And Sybilla and I are certainly not saints._

As for the Ravenclaws … well, putting either of them in a group with the hapless half-blood was a recipe for disaster. Autumn Woodard was a bossy know-it-all who, for all of her book learning, wasn’t nearly as good with a wand as Sybilla – and both girls knew it. As for Beau Ormonde, Vivianne didn’t know him very well … but she knew him by reputation, slightly, and she knew he was like most Ravenclaws: addicted to his books, gifted with native intelligence, possessing more knowledge than most of his classmates … and well aware of all of those facts.

With all of that knowledge in hand, Vivianne could understand why the professors had put Sybilla and her with Hufflepuffs. It was probably the safest option.

As for these two Hufflepuffs … Vivianne glanced sidelong at Spencer and Zachary. She didn’t know much about either of them, other than that they were two of Claudia Churchill’s friends. Not much to recommend either of them …

But Spencer knew how to give an annoying Ministry official what was coming to him, and as for Zachary … well, everyone knew about Zachary Duncan: handsome, effortlessly charming, and seemingly sincere in all he did and said. Vivianne would not have been surprised to find that half the girls in their year were in love with him to a greater or lesser degree. It wasn’t surprising. Most girls, when you got down to it, did not have that high of standards.

Although she had heard that he _was_ pureblooded …

She shook her head. Really, where were her thoughts going? She was barely paying any attention to what she was doing – and she wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings at all!

_It’s this place,_ she decided. Vivianne cast a musing, hooded glance around the room. It shouldn’t have felt this—safe. Comfortable. These ruins were fifteen hundred years old, the professors had said. She shouldn’t have felt at home here. She should be worried about them falling down on her head!

At the same time, she was quite sure that they would not.

Vivianne held back a shiver and forced herself to concentrate on her cleaning, to remember that this was delicate work and needed her full attention. And for the rest of the class – until it was time to gather in the courtyard to walk back to the school – it worked. More or less.

But as the class set off into the forest – and just before they ducked into the cover of the trees – Vivianne looked back.

_I’ll be back on Wednesday,_ she thought at the ruins.

And it must have been the sun reflecting off … something … but she almost thought she saw a flash of light.

It almost looked like a wink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave us a comment or some kudos if you're so inclined. We hope you liked it!


	7. Chapter 6: And Home Before It's Dark

**Chapter 6: And Home Before It’s Dark**

“Well, well, what have we here?” Ben looked in the direction of the familiar voice to see Selena sitting on the top step, arms locked around her knees and grinning lopsidedly.

“Just an idiot from Texas, about to do murder to the mother tongue,” Ben shrugged. “Lucinda’s probably already halfway to the Great Hall; only thing we found all day had to be found with like two minutes left of class.”

“I saw her; she was deep in conversation with some of the girls—mostly evaluating arses. Apparently that’s the one thing _she_ took away from your first class: who has a decent butt, who doesn’t.” Selena bounced to her feet with a smirk.

“I pro’ly shouldn’t ask, but am I a decent rear or a not-decent one?” Ben asked, knowing this was one of those questions he’d regret asking either way. He hoped—well, it didn’t really matter what he hoped.

“Yours didn’t come up.” Selena cocked her head.

“Great. It’s a functional butt—does everything a rear end is supposed to do.” Ben said, looking over his shoulder this way and that as his cousin Desi did whenever she tried on anything. As always, the first line of defense was to hide behind humor.

“Maybe she was just saving the best for last; it wasn’t like she was ranking them in brackets,” Selena told him.

“Or the worst,” Ben reminded her.

“Cynic.” The blonde girl rolled her eyes.

“Guilty. So what were you still doing out here, if the girls and the conversation about best butt went toward dinner?” Ben asked.

“Waiting for you, actually.” Selena sighed.

“Me?”

“I wanted your advice—on Cameron,” she admitted when he quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Well, it’ll depend on what you want advice on—some things are held in a sacred trust, after all,” Ben told her. She looked at him, a sardonic expression on her face. “Bros before hos, m’darlin’.”

“I can’t believe you actually said that!”

“I know. Believe me, I’m sorta hating myself for it.” Ben shook his head. “But the point remains. Men who involve themselves in their friends’ relationships on the side of the womens tend to regret it. I don’t want Cameron pimp-slapping me before we pull each other’s hair in the lunchroom.”

“I’d pay to see the two of you in the middle of a bitch fight in the Great Hall, actually. Might make a bad impression on your girlfriend though,” Selena said with a smirk.

“Girlfriend?”

“Do you think it escaped me that you rushed in last minute in the presence of a pretty girl?” Selena batted her lashes at him.

“Rowan? We were assigned groups and then Lucinda ditched me for the Ravenclaw – hardly me rolling up on the girl.”

“Oh, Benjamin.” Selena shook her head. “I know you’re disgustingly honest—even with Lipskit about what the bloody hell you just did to Moaning Myrtle’s toilet—but the last thing you want to do to a girl is make it sound like she was your last choice—even if she would’ve been your last choice.” Selena sighed.

“Hey, I felt bad about that one. Moaning Myrtle cried for almost an hour. One of those things my uncle and cousin agreed on was don’t make girls cry.” Ben rubbed at the back of his neck with a grimace.

“What about your aunt? Wasn’t she on board with not making girls cry?” Selena asked curiously. Selena had met Ben’s aunt and thoroughly liked her. It wasn’t often, he expected, you met a witch like his aunt, one who had a thorough appreciation for the Muggle world, enough so that she could walk through the airport and the train station, keep Muggle money straight, and hold a serious conversation with just about any Muggle. Yet there was no denying she was a witch. Mary-Anne Kain managed to have two worlds, not just occasionally straddle into one or the other.

“My aunt is of the mind that girls are completely capable of making boys cry too. They don’t need to be spared on principle,” Ben said. “I agree with them all, because it’s safer for me.”

Selena shook her head with a smile. “If you’re fundamentally against making girls cry, why the hell did you set up a nude beach in her toilet in the first place?”

“It wasn’t nude – they were wearing fig leaves!” Ben protested. “And hey, it’s not like she’s going on vacation to the Caribbean; we thought she’d like the statues. And the sand. And the water …” Ben shrugged. “And it must’ve taken us a week to get that bespelled background to work and actually give us a sunset.”

“Whatever happened to all that stuff anyway?”

“Lipskit made a joke about putting it in the teacher’s lounge. But beyond that I don’t know.”

Selena threw her head back and laughed. Ben grinned.

“I suppose, if we want more than dry crusts and water, I’d better get to asking what I was going to ask about.”

“And I will do what answerin’ I can.”

“I know, I know, you have a bro trust to uphold.” Selena smiled, but it didn’t quite touch her eyes. “Ben, you know I care about Cam. It’s killing me to see him just shoving everything away like he is. He’s completely given up. He doesn’t care about his courses; he barely cares about you guys and planning your latest pranks.”

“I know, but you can’t make him care, Selena,” Ben pointed out, holding the door into the castle open for her. They walked into the large atrium that led, eventually, to the Great Hall.

“I know. But he doesn’t have to just … give up. I know it’s what his dad wants—but for fuck’s sake, Ben, even if he is completely trapped, locked into that future—which I know what that future is. My brother and cousin are Hit Wizards, I know who the de Falcos are. Giving up now just means he won’t have any chance to live at all.” Selena looked at Ben pleadingly.

Ben wished he had something to offer her.

“And I’m not so sure that he’s as locked in as he thinks he is. If it were just up to his dad, _maybe,_ but I’m pretty sure that Cam’s dad cares enough about his son that if Cam would ever tell him, you know, ‘this isn’t what I want,’ he’d at least hear him out.”

“Of course he’d hear him out; Kasumi knows where Leon sleeps,” Ben offered, though it wasn’t much of a joke, and neither he nor Selena was in the mood to laugh at it.

“But that’s a point. I know there’s a tradition of the life in their family—I also know that Mrs. de Falco really cares about Cam. She’d want him to be happy, even if—even if …” Selena trailed off.

“Even if she had to put her foot in his dad’s ass herself?” Ben offered.

Selena nodded. “And maybe it’s not so easy as Cam just sitting his parents down with a ‘Dearest, darling, Mumsy and Popsicle, this isn’t the life for me—’ It would be so much easier if it were.”

Ben snorted in agreement. “So am I Elphaba, or are you? If Cam is Galinda?”

“Oh-my-god, Ben, you actually knew what I was talking about!”

“Desi loves _Wicked_. I think she listened to the soundtrack for a week straight.” Ben shrugged. “We’ve seen it three times.”

“I knew your cousin was awesome.” Selena grinned. “It is so nice when you’re not looked at blankly.”

“I wouldn’t know.” He grinned. “I’m almost always looked at blankly. I don’t really have the experience with being looked at with understanding to compare it.” Selena smacked his arm.

“Still, I wish Cam didn’t think he had to hide it from me.” Selena sighed, returning to her original thought.

“It’s natural to protect the people you care about. Cam knows how much misery being involved in the life has brought to the people he cares about who are in it,” Ben told her. “You can’t entirely fault him for wanting to keep the people who aren’t involved as far away as possible.”

“To the point of losing them?”

“Better to be safe, far away, and lost to you than right there in danger you mean?” Ben asked. Selena nodded. “Cam seems to think so, and whether I agree with him doesn’t really matter.” Ben shook his head, pushing open the door to the Great Hall.

“Cynic,” Selena accused with a flat look on her face, though her eyes sparkled just a little.

“Still guilty, darlin’.”

* * *

Rowan understood how it was that the Ravenclaws crowded around the three of them – Beau, Autumn, and herself – and wanted to know _everything_. What the Forest had been like, what the ruins had looked like. What they’d done. What the students from the other houses had been like.

It was gossip, and even in Ravenclaw, gossip was a currency at least as powerful as anything the goblins controlled. And it was curiosity – something even the most impecunious or gossip-starved Ravenclaw always had in spades.

What Rowan _didn’t_ understand was why it was that the three of them were sitting together at the Ravenclaw table, or how she’d gotten sandwiched in the middle of Beau and Autumn. It would have made much more sense for the three of them to be at opposite ends of the table, so everyone could hear the story right from the hippogriff’s mouth rather than having to play a table-long game of telephone.

Quill and Candice had grabbed two of the seats opposite the three of them, a fact which had netted them no end of glares from other Ravenclaws. Candice, luckily, was cheerfully immune to that sort of thing, while Quill tended to return glare for glare. Not many people liked to be glared at by Quill for very long, so that worked out all right.

Rowan smiled at the two of them as much as she could and hoped that it would be enough.

“So what did you do?” asked a bouncing first-year next to Autumn.

“Well, we all got split up into different groups, so we were all doing different things,” Autumn answered. “My group was in the kitchen first. We were helping to photograph and catalog some of the artifacts they found.”

“You found artifacts?” Beau asked. “That’s lucky. We didn’t find any.”

“Well, a-actually—” Rowan started.

“What kind of artifacts?” asked a third-year.

“We were looking at knives, mostly. Ms. Rydell showed us a spell that would let us see the last few items they were used to cut.” Autumn rested her chin on her hand and stared thoughtfully into the middle distance. “It was interesting – from what we could see, all the knives were used just to cut food. The only herbs we could find traces of – ginger, peppermint, that kind of thing – were edible.”

“That m-m-makes—” Rowan tried to say.

“That’s odd!” said Owen Wildsmith. He was on the other side of Candice; he’d made sure to sit close to the three of them and was hanging on to every word that Beau or Autumn spoke. “You’d think you’d use the same knives for both. Weren’t good knives expensive back then?”

“Maybe the kitchen servants were all Muggles,” mused Chris Richards. “They might not have been making potions at all.”

“We couldn’t find any trace of potions at all in there. But we couldn’t find another building that might have been used as a potions lab,” Autumn said. “Or at least, I don’t think we have yet. Ms. Rydell said that there was every chance that the potions lab might have been another building, not in the main castle, for the same reason that the kitchens were.”

“B-b-but you w-wouldn’t want to d-d-do that in the k-kitchen—” Rowan began.

“Maybe we should ask Geoff,” Owen mused out loud.

Candice glared at him. “Hey!”

“What?” Owen asked.

“You just interrupted Rowan. Twice!” Candice huffed.

“I did?” Owen turned puzzled brown eyes to Rowan. “Oh. Sorry, Rowan.”

“It’s o-o-okay,” Rowan replied with a small smile. She took a deep breath to try to continue what she’d been saying—

“Thanks, Rowan! Hey, Geoff!” Owen leaned back in his chair and called down the table. “Geoff! Bloody—Nora!” He waved frantically. “Grab Geoff and tell him to get his arse down here!”

Candice was staring at the back of Owen’s head throughout this exchange. “Are you _kidding_ me?” she hissed.

“It’s o-okay, Candice,” Rowan said.

“He—good God! How can you be so _rude_?”

“Leave it, Candice,” Quill muttered after a sidelong glance at Rowan’s face. She could already feel the heat rising as she turned her gaze back to her plate.

“Who’s being rude?” asked Owen, turning back to the conversation.

“ARGH!” Candice groaned, and it was only come quick wand-work by Rowan that kept her plate from being in the way when Candice’s head thumped onto the table.

Her gaze met Quill’s, and both of them shook their heads and rolled their eyes.

“Well, while we wait for Geoff to tear his gaze away from his Potions book,” Owen asked, “Beau—Rowan—what were your groups up to?”

Rowan looked up and took a breath—

“We were in the same group, actually,” Beau answered. Rowan couldn’t help the smile that came when he said that. “We were in the courtyard, searching through some of the rubble for artifacts. We ended up splitting the group in two. Lucinda and I—”

“Lucinda?” asked a fourth-year.

“Lucinda Wolf,” Beau explained. “She’s a Gryffindor in our year. Red hair, gray eyes – smaller than Rowan, actually. Anyway, she and I were working together, while Rowan was working with Ben Moore.”

Beau frowned, and without any warning, he turned to Rowan. “You didn’t mind, right? He didn’t—I mean, we all know his reputation. He and his friends did make Moaning Myrtle cry.”

“N-no, n-no, he’s n-n-nice,” Rowan hurriedly explained, even if her heart was thumping half out of her chest. He was talking to her, he was _looking_ at her, she was going to fall into his big blue eyes and drown in them—

She tried to get her whirling thoughts under control, to lodge a protest and ask if maybe next time, they could switch up the mini-groups so she could work with Beau.

He smiled, and though that didn’t quite knock Rowan’s train of thought off the track, she still didn’t have enough time before he started speaking again. “Well, that’s good. Anyway. We didn’t find anything.” He looked again at Rowan. “But I think you and Ben did?”

Rowan grinned. “Y-yes! We d-did!”

And just like that – the eyes of Ravenclaw table turned to her.

Rowan’s jaw fell and she swallowed. “W-w-w-we f-f-f-found a v-v-vase,” she stammered, trying to make her voice loud enough to carry. Her voice had no intention of cooperating. She looked down and tried to clear her throat.

“Did someone down here want to talk to me?” asked a puzzled Geoffrey Barkley.

“Geoff!” Owen grinned. “We have a question for you! We …” He frowned. “What was our question?”

“We could let Rowan finish while you try to remember,” Candice said in a tone of voice she probably thought was sweet, but which was too close to “on edge” to actually qualify as such.

“I remember,” said Autumn. “Geoff,” she leaned closer to him, halfway across Rowan’s space, Rowan backing up as far as she could go to give her room, “my group in the ruins was in the kitchen, and we noticed that all of the knives were just used for food. We couldn’t find any trace of potion-brewing equipment, either, although it’s still early days for that. And we haven’t found any other potion-brewing space. Any idea why that might be?”

Geoff raised one eyebrow. “Well, you don’t want to go brewing potions in a _kitchen_ ; a lot of the herbs we use in potions are poisonous. You use the same equipment and the same space, you’re asking for an accident.”

“Would they have known that back then?” asked a third-year. “My mum loves history—Muggle history—and she says that people used to do absolutely daft things because they didn’t know any better!”

Geoff turned to the girl with a raised eyebrow. “One – those are Muggles. Two – some of the ‘daft’ things might be magical things that got into Muggle records. Professor Sprout says that old Muggle records have a lot of magical potions recipes and herbal descriptions, if you know where to look to find them. And three – no, Muggles and wizards back then didn’t know as much as we do now. But they had a pretty good idea about which plants were poisonous, or – well – potentially poisonous. A lot of it is about the dose.”

He shook himself before he could go off in a reverie. “Anyway. What did you need me down here for?” he asked Autumn.

“Well, that, mostly,” Autumn said.

“ _Seriously_?” Geoff raised an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you just ask Rowan? She’s as good at Potions as I am.”

Once again—everyone turned to look at her. “Why didn’t you just tell us?” asked a fifth-year.

Rowan covered her face with her hands. “I _t-t-tried_!”

“She kept getting—interrupted,” Quill said by way of explanation to Geoff.

“Really?” Geoff rolled his eyes. “Merlin. I’d expect it from Professor Yaxley, but not out of you lot. Is that all?” he asked Owen and Autumn.

“Yeah,” Autumn said, biting her lower lip. Owen had the grace to look a bit sheepish. “Yeah, that’s … about it.”

“All right then.” With a last smile for all of them, Geoff went back to his friends.

But though that might have given Rowan an opening, it didn’t. One of the fifth-years asked Autumn another question about the kitchens, Autumn answered it, and that was that.

Rowan gave it five minutes – enough time for her, Candice, and Quill to finish the food on their plates. Then she glanced down the table to where Jon, Aubrey, and Blair were sitting. Aubrey had thrown back his head and was laughing at something Jon had said, and even Blair was giggling.

Rowan grinned and glanced at Quill. “I’ve g-g-g-got to ask Jon a qu-question about the D-D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts homework – I sh-should probably g-g-go and d-do that n-now.”

“Right,” Quill said, catching on and nodding. “Before his Quidditch tryouts.”

Candice frowned. “Wait, I thought Quidditch tryouts were—”

An elbow from Quill stopped that. “We’ll go with you,” he said.

Rowan grinned. “I’ll s-s-s-see you all later,” she said to the group of listening Ravenclaws.

Not that any of them were, in fact, listening. She probably would have needed to take her blouse off to get them to pay attention. But that was all right – none of them would think that the three of them were rude for cutting and running.

So Rowan grabbed her things and her plate and darted down the table, Quill and Candice hurrying along with her. Quill even ran around the end of the table so he could land in his usual seat, next to Rowan, who was next to Jon.

“Hey, you joined us!” Aubrey grinned.

“We were thinking you’d gotten used to your newfound fame and left us all behind,” Jon added, putting an arm around Rowan.

“N-n-not hardly,” Rowan laughed.

“Fame, ha!” Candice thumped into her seat. “Rowan couldn’t even get a word in edgewise! Beau and Autumn were hogging all of the attention.”

“It’s n-not that b-b-big of a deal,” Rowan said. “Honestly. If—well, if I wasn’t b-b-being interrupted, I w-wouldn’t have even m-minded.”

“Still,” Candice sighed.

“Wait …” Aubrey raised one eyebrow. “So if you couldn’t get a word in edgewise … might that mean you wouldn’t mind telling us how it went?”

Rowan giggled. “Can’t wait until t-tomorrow to f-find out for y-yourself?”

“Nope,” Aubrey replied, shoving his plate out of the way and resting his chin on his hands.

Blair laughed. “You’d better tell him,” she said. “He was awfully impatient when you got dragged off with Beau and Autumn.”

“No p-problem,” Rowan replied, still smiling.

And she told them.

* * *

“So, I bet you’re sick of talking about the class,” Shae said.

“I could still talk about it,” Zach said. “Though—didn’t Ben, Lucinda, and Tristan tell you all about it?” He cocked his head, puzzled. Spencer, Trevor, Claudia, and Juliette also looked puzzled, though Krem just smiled.

“Lucinda mostly talked about the people _in_ the class. By the way, she doesn’t think you have the best butt in the class.” Zach would never be quite sure if she said it just to see him blush six ways to Sunday, or if that was just an amusing side effect of telling him. “Tristan was very enthusiastic about the class, but you know him. He’s friends with some of your friends in Ravenclaw, right? His mind works a little bit differently from everyone else’s minds. He’s a little hard to follow, and the more enthusiasm he has, the harder it is to follow.”

“And Ben?” Spencer asked curiously.

“Ben is … _stoic_. A man of few words and much sarcasm.” Shae shrugged. “Plus, accent, and he mangles English on purpose. Besides, we’re still ‘supposed’ to be mad at Ben and his friends for the beach in the toilet and losing us points.”

“I take it by the emphasis on ‘supposed to’ that you’re not really, at least personally?” Spencer’s eyebrow quirked above his glasses.

“Are you kidding? The beach was hilarious—at least to us if not to Moaning Myrtle—and he and his friends are way too nice of guys to really stay mad at for long.” Shae matched Spencer’s eyebrow. “I’ve heard them compared with the Weasley twins. And who would you rather be around? The Weasley twins of our generation, or sticks in the mud like Beau Ormonde and James Fawley? Or maybe Autumn Woodard, Lenneth Spinnet, and Atticus Griffith?”

“Shae, be nice,” Krem chided gently.

“I’m just saying, some of those statues were funny. Did you notice the one that looked like that picture of Rove when he was a student in the Gobstones club?” Shae giggled.

“No—and I think I’m glad.” Krem looked at Shae, slightly disturbed. “How, exactly, did you end up finding a picture of Rove back from when he was our age?”

“Detention from Professor Yaxley for not telling her who wrote ‘Yaxley is a fink’ on her blackboard. We had to wash all the trophy cases in the trophy room. It’s probably where they got the idea; Kenny’s in my class.” Shae grinned at him.

“Oh. I guess I hadn’t thought of that.”

“That’s okay, sweetie. I like you anyway.” She leaned her head onto his shoulder. Krem flushed faintly.

“I thought you wanted to hear about the class—not flirt with Krem,” Juliette rolled her eyes.

“Can’t I do both?” Shae asked.

“Hey, Miri, you feeling better?” Zach asked the first-year, who had just trailed in looking pale, wan, and tear-streaked. She climbed up on the bench next to Zach and gave a half-hearted push at her nose before shrugging.

“You missed dinner. We were worried,” Trevor said gently.

“It’s nothing. I’m not hungry. You had your class, right?” She looked hopefully at Zach, Spencer, and Trevor.

“Yeah. I worked in the kitchens. Zach and Spencer were in the foyer,” Trevor told her.

“What was it like?” she asked, almost sounding like she was forcing herself to be curious. “It was a castle, right?”

“Sort of. Not like a storybook castle, more like a walled Greek estate,” Spencer said, watching her carefully.

“Storybook castles only exist in storybooks, Bavaria, and wherever they have wizarding schools, apparently.” Miri sounded far older than her eleven years as she folded her uniform skirt into an accordion.

“Bavaria?” Juliette asked skeptically.

“Neuschwanstein Castle is in Bavaria. Henry had a poster; he promised to take me,” Miri muttered toward her lap.

“Well … what about Disney castles?” Spencer asked.

“Yeah, my uncle has a ton of pictures from his trips to the Disney parks; I think he’s been to all of them,” said Krem. “And there’s always a big castle there.”

“I meant historical castles—besides, Disney doesn’t count. Disney parks are just people traps built by a mouse.” Miri sniffled slightly as she said it, as if she were parroting something she’d heard but maybe didn’t really want to believe.

“Wow. That’s … a lot of cynicism for a firstie,” Shae murmured to Zach, who timed his nod for when Miri was looking away from him.

“Even if it wasn’t a castle on the scale of Hogwarts, it was still neat!” Trevor said. “Didn’t you guys say you saw a cool statue? And some mosaics?”

“Yeah, uh, there was a mosaic of Cronus being tricked by Rhea into eating the rock instead of Zeus.” Spencer smiled. “And there was one of Demeter and Persephone—with Persephone as child. They were weaving daisy chains. It was very … uh … sweet.”

“We were cleaning the dust off the mosaics,” Zach offered. He fumbled for a minute because Miri seemed to be deflating right in front of them. “Oh, the statue—I think you would have liked it. It kinda reminded me of you telling us about—uh …” And of course Zach’s memory for the name would short out on him right then. “The … shieldmaiden.”

“Eowyn.” Spencer picked the thread up smoothly.

“Yeah.”

Miri shook her head and stared at her hands. Zach and Spencer went back and forth for a minute trying to describe the statue, though Zach wasn’t even sure she was listening to them.

“Maybe it was Morgan,” Miri muttered after they were finished. “You said the ruins were ‘posed to be Arthurian-era. And she was real. One of the girls in my class, Niniane, is a Gorlois; they say they’re _descended_ from her.”

“Gorloises say a lot. That doesn’t mean it’s all true.” Juliette apparently had been sitting on her tongue too long – or else she was missing the taste of shoe leather.

“But how do _you_ know it’s _not_?”

“Look, Miri, why don’t you just go get Niamh to get you something from the kitchens and go to bed or something?” Juliette rolled her eyes.

Miri’s head came up hard and fast, her eyes locking on Juliette. Her mouth opened like she was about to say something, then tears welled up in her gray eyes. The first year was off the bench and halfway across the courtyard before they could really do much more than blink.

“Seriously, Juliette—aren’t Hufflepuffs supposed to be loyal and kind? You’re acting more like a Slytherin right now, no offense, Claudia,” Shae chided as Zach and Spencer took off after the first-year.

“None taken,” Claudia said just before Zach and Spencer passed out of earshot. “Gryffindors aren’t supposed to think before they speak.”

Confident that Shae would take Juliette to task and Trevor and Claudia would smooth that over, Zach and Spencer headed off in the direction Miri had gone—though once she’d crested the hill, they really had no idea where she _had_ gone.

The easiest way – given that Miri wasn’t that tall yet, even if she was tall for a girl her age – to go if you had disappeared down the way Miri had gone was toward Hagrid’s cottage. And there were plenty of places near the cottage for a first-year to lose her pursuers. By general accord, he and Spencer headed in that direction. If nothing else, they could probably find Hagrid and borrow his hound to track her down.

They saw nothing but a hippogriff as they worked their way toward the cottage. Zach was in Lipskit’s Care of Magical Creatures class, but he’d heard that NEWT-level students in Hagrid’s class got to meet and ride the hippogriffs. This one was gray and seemed to be watching something on the other side of a table-sized pumpkin.

Spencer jerked his head toward the hippogriff, and Zach nodded. The sound of sniffle when they came close to the hippogriff clued them to what, exactly, the hippogriff was watching.

“Go ‘way.” Miri said it into the side of the pumpkin. “An-and take whatever that—AHHH!”

The hippogriff shied back slightly as Miri shrieked straight into its face.

“What’s goin’ on out here?” The cottage door banged open before spilling Hagrid into the evening.

“We were trying to collect Miri,” Spencer said, gesturing at the first-year, who was cowering from the hippogriff. “And she met your hippogriff. I think it startled her.”

“Oh, Beaky wouldn’t hurt yeh,” Hagrid tried to reassure. Miri didn’t look reassured. The groundskeeper walked around to where the hippogriff stood and laid a hand on its back, stroking it. “This hippogriff’s a very special hippogriff, didja know?”

Miri shook her head fast, her blonde hair flying.

“He belongs ter Mr. Harry Potter,” Hagrid said. “Yeh know o’ Harry Potter, right?” Miri nodded. “Buckbeak, say hullo ter Miri.” The hippogriff tipped its head and stretched its neck, holding very still. Miri tentatively reached out and touched the eagle-like head. Buckbeak—Beaky?—brought its head up just a little, somewhat like a cat butting its head into someone’s palm.

“H-hello, Mr. Buckbeak,” Miri hazarded. The hippogriff turned and headed off back toward the forest, pleasantries apparently finished. Miri watched him for a moment, then perched on the edge of the pumpkin she’d been sobbing into when they’d first spotted her, burying her head in her hands.

Hagrid’s large face crumpled and he offered her a very large but clean handkerchief as she sobbed again. He looked at Zach and Spencer and jerked his head toward the cottage door. As sitting in Hagrid’s house seemed a vast improvement over trying to perch on a pumpkin, Zach and Spencer nodded. Hagrid got Miri off the pumpkin and into the house; then he busied himself with offering her probably anything he could in the way of food and drink.

She accepted a glass of pumpkin juice – though that was probably just because she was worn down by his offers – and sat on the chair, carefully folding and unfolding the handkerchief.

“What’s wrong?” Zach finally asked.

“I just want something Henry told me to be real. Something that isn’t wrong or a lie.”

“A lie?” Zach squatted down by her chair.

“He told me he’d take me to see Neuschwanstein, he told me he’d always be there, he told me—he told me that my mum loves me!” Miri sobbed. “And it was a lie!”

“Oh, Miri,” Zach sighed. “It may not be a lie. I know—I know after my dad left my mum that she had a hard time. Sometimes circumstances just beat people down and they don’t … know how to express that. It doesn’t mean they don’t feel it. And—I’m sure—with everything that you’ve told us about Henry, that he feels as bad about not being able to take you to Neuschwanstein as you are about not getting to go. This isn’t all there is. I mean there wouldn’t be ghosts if it all just—ended, right?”

“But o-only wizards can become ghosts, so maybe—just—just like turning a-a-a match into a needle—maybe there’s only something after for _wizards_ and—and Henry wasn’t.”

“No.” The rumbled reply came not from Zach or Spencer, but from Hagrid. “Death might not be the same fer Muggles an’ wizards. But it ain’t the end. Not fer Muggles, not fer wizards.” He fidgeted faintly when Zach and Spencer looked at him. Miri wailed, and he yelped, “I shouldn’t ‘ave said that. Definitely shouldn’t ‘ave said that.”

“No, Professor, I think that’s exactly the right thing to say,” Spencer reassured him, looking over at Miri as Zach rubbed her back.

“But she wouldn’t be, would she?” Miri asked finally.

“Pardon?” Zach asked.

“Morgan—the statue wouldn’t—wouldn’t really be Morgan, would it?” Miri asked.

She was probably just changing the subject to not have to think any longer about Henry and losing him – but Zach could play along. “Hey, how many Arthurian-era battlemaidens do you think there are?” he offered. “If she’s not Morgan proper, maybe she’s somebody whose legend got mixed in with Morgan’s. Or because we’ll never really know—maybe it is Morgan.”

“But—Juliette said …” Miri trailed off.

“There you go again—believing everything Juliette tells you. I bet Henry was right a lot more than Juliette’s ever been,” Spencer said, _tsk_ ing gently.

“My gramma says even a broken clock is right twice a day,” Miri twisted her hands together.

“Would you look at that—Juliette is right even less than a _broken clock_.” Spencer sighed. Zach chuckled. Spencer winked at Miri who offered a very small, very tentative, very-nearly-broken smile, but it was a smile.

* * *

_Dear Grandmother,_

Vivianne paused, tapping her quill against the parchment. She’d been mulling over this letter since she had started the walk back from the ruins. She’d let it sit in the back of her mind during dinner and as she completed her homework in the common room. Now here it was, evening, with only the darkness of the lake-water visible from the windows.

And all Vivianne had was _Dear Grandmother._

Where to start? The Forest? The ruins themselves? Mundanities in reply to mundanities from her grandmother’s last letter?

Frowning, she drew her knees closer to her chest and straightened the book she was using as a makeshift desk.

Might as well cut to the chase. Her grandmother was never one to beat about the bush.

_We had our first class in the ruins today. There are several Ministry officials attached to our class – a Mr. Langley, a Ms. Rydell, and a Ms. Caymen._ Vivianne didn’t bother to ask if her grandmother knew anything about them; if she did know, she would tell Vivianne in her next letter. _There is also a Mr. Zabini, and M. Bellerose, the researcher Uncle Victor met in France and whom he introduced to Mother, Professor Yaxley, and ~~I~~ me._

Her grandmother would be _very_ interested to hear about Monsieur Bellerose, even if he was just a harmless archaeologist. Uncle Victor still had contacts in the Ministry, and sometimes Vivianne wondered just how much it would take for Uncle Victor’s contacts to engage in open warfare with her grandmother’s.

_… Probably quite a bit,_ Vivianne thought with a smirk. _Neither Grandmother nor Uncle Victor is unsubtle._

She straightened the book again and continued to write.

_The ruins themselves are rather intriguing. They’re not at all like Hogwarts, although that should be expected, since they’re estimated to be about 500 years older than Hogwarts. But at the same time, they don’t look much like what a fortress would have looked like at the time. These are modeled off a Greek or Roman country estate – I believe more Greek than Roman. The place was certainly designed with luxury in mind as much as defense. While the walls could easily be defended with only a handful of witches or wizards, once you’re inside, it’s very clear that this is someone’s home as much as it is a fortress._

_The professors split us into groups before we even entered the Forest. Thankfully, I’m in the same group as Sybilla, and there are two Hufflepuff boys in the group with us: Zachary Duncan and Spencer Hood. Our class is only composed of sixth-years; the seventh-years will be attending on opposite days._

_My group was assigned to work in the foyer of the ruins, which is—_

There was a thump on the couch that she was sitting on, causing Vivianne’s quill to jerk. “You’re _still_ doing homework?” Belle asked incredulously.

“No,” Vivianne said, grabbing her wand and muttering a few charms to put her quill and ink away and to clean up the ink spots on her letter. “I was writing a letter to my grandmother.” She looked up with a raised eyebrow. “Did you need something?”

“Er … well …” Belle pursed her lips together and looked around. “How … how was your class today?”

Vivianne smirked. Of course it would be Belle who would come right out and ask. Cornelia, or – heaven forbid – Frida or Trish? Not a chance. No matter how interested they were, they wouldn’t ask if someone had Professor Lipskit’s cane inches from their throats. And Isolde simply wouldn’t be interested enough.

“I mean,” Belle backtracked, “Colwyn has been jawing on to the boys ever since dinner, and _he_ was only in the kitchens. I was—well, I couldn’t help but wonder what the rest of the ruins were like.”

“The ruins?” That was Trish, sticking her head into the sheltered alcove where Vivianne had been writing. “Oh—did you have your class today, Vivianne? I thought the seventh-years were today.” Trish focused on the couch, the floor, the windows – everywhere but Vivianne’s eyes.

_Somebody needs to teach that girl to lie better._ “No, it was the sixth-years,” Vivianne replied.

“Oh.” Trish glanced over her shoulder at where Frida was chatting with – chatting _up_? – a seventh-year boy. She nodded her head once toward where Vivianne and Belle were sitting. Frida made her excuses to the boy and wandered over.

Cornelia, stomping away from Troy Birch, wasn’t far behind. “Honestly, that boy …”

“Later!” Belle hissed. “Vivianne’s going to tell us about the ruins!”

“The ruins?” Cornelia asked, her dark, deep-set eyes registering interest only for a moment – but a moment was all it took.

She tried to recover, flouncing onto the sofa opposite Vivianne and Belle. “Well, I suppose if Vivianne wants to talk about it …”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of boring you if you weren’t interested,” Vivianne replied in her most sincere voice. “After all, none of you asked during dinner.” She glanced again at her letter. “Nobody asked at all.”

She didn’t look – but she did listen. There was definite silence from all of the girls, but it was more than that. There was a circle of quiet all around their alcove, and from farther afield, there were the sounds of friends shushing friends.

Vivianne smirked.

“Er … well …” Cornelia murmured.

“We’re asking now,” Belle said. “So … will you tell us? Please?” Belle smiled and batted her eyelashes.

Judging it would be appropriate, Vivianne laughed. “Very well, if you insist. Let’s see …” She glanced at Belle. “I take it you heard from Colwyn how we were all split into groups?”

“Yes—and he didn’t have anyone in our house from his group! Although, I suppose it could have been worse. He only had to deal with one person from each of the other houses.” Belle shrugged. “And from what he said, Tristan Potts isn’t so bad. Autumn Woodard is annoying, but the other one … someone called Travis, I think? Travis Rivers?” Belle shrugged. “Colwyn said he actually seemed to know what he was talking about, and he managed to do it without being annoying.”

“He must be a Ravenclaw,” Cornelia dismissed, waving her hand.

“No—Colwyn said he was a Hufflepuff, actually,” Belle replied.

“ _Really_?”

“‘Really’?” Vivianne echoed, raising an eyebrow at Cornelia. “For goodness’s sake, Cornelia, it’s not shocking. ‘Hufflepuff’ is hardly a synonym for ‘moron.’”

“No, that’s Gryffindor,” Frida quipped, and the girls snickered.

“Anyway,” Vivianne said as the snickers died away, “Sybilla and I were in a group together, which is why Colwyn was all by him—where _is_ Sybilla?”

“Dorm room,” Belle replied. “Reading. A book with a jacket on it, so we all know what that means.” She shook her head. “I wish …” She silenced herself for a moment, glancing around to make sure no prefects or known snitches were listening. “I wish I knew where she got those book jackets. She has more book jackets from books on Muggle science than anyone I’ve ever met!”

“Probably the same place she gets the books,” Vivianne replied. “What? Don’t look at me like that, Belle. Do you honestly think she’d just bring the jackets to the school?” She raised her eyebrow. “ _That_ would be a very, very elementary error, and as we all know, Sybilla does not make elementary errors.”

_And if, every now and then, Sybilla is actually_ reading _the book that came with the jacket, these four don’t need to know that …_

“But anyway,” Vivianne said, “Sybilla and I were in a group with two Hufflepuffs – Zachary Duncan and—”

“Zachary _Duncan_?” Trish squealed, practically stuffing her hands in her mouth.

Frida glanced at her and rolled her eyes. “Sorry,” she said to Vivianne. “But, well, we all know how good-looking he is, and I made the mistake of telling _this_ one,” she nodded to Trish, “that he’s pureblood.”

“He’s a _Creampuff_ ,” Cornelia dismissed. “Although, how do you know that he’s pureblood?”

“His mother lives on the same island as my family,” Frida replied. “She runs a dress shop; I modeled for her over the summer. I told you – don’t you remember?”

“Oh …” Cornelia glanced at her nails, painted silver. They had been dark red this morning. “I do think I remember, now.”

“Yes. Well, his mother might run a dress shop – but his father is an official in the Ministry. He’s a diplomat, I believe.” Frida smoothed her skirt over her knees. “Altogether – not, perhaps, the crème de la crème, but a decent-enough catch.”

“ _Especially_ since he’s so handsome,” Trish sighed.

“He’s not that handsome,” Cornelia dismissed.

“Oh, yes he is!” Belle disagreed. “If I didn’t have my Jamesie …” She sighed. “But—Frida—did you say that his mother lives on the island? Why not his parents?”

“Because his _parents_ don’t live on the island.” Frida was smirking now, and Vivianne’s attention perked up almost in spite of herself. “His father left his mother when we were … hmm … six or seven, I think.” Frida tapped her lips. “It wasn’t that long after the war; I remember that much.”

_Which would explain how she remembers it,_ Vivianne thought, tucking the knowledge away. Frida had mentioned the island she had grown up on more than once. It was a small, isolated spot – the sort of place that didn’t see much gossip, and so had to milk whatever gossip they got until it went bone-dry. _Her_ father had probably been the subject of gossip until the day Zachary’s father left the family.

_How awful,_ said a small voice from very deep inside Vivianne. But she pushed it aside. Seven years with a father was better than none at all, wasn’t it?

_… Depends on how much of a git the father is,_ spoke the voice of cynicism, which was rather one of the loudest of Vivianne’s mental voices. Given her own mother’s track record … well, she certainly wouldn’t have bet on her own father being a kind, compassionate gentleman.

Not that she’d ever seen him. Or heard his voice. Or knew his name.

Vivianne pushed _those_ thoughts not merely aside, but down, deep, buried where they would be all-but-impossible to find. There were times when it was acceptable to be maudlin, to feel a bit of self-pity. There were even times when it was acceptable to show weakness. This was not one of those times.

She heard a gasp and turned to Belle. Belle’s eyes were wide as she stared at Frida. “His father—his father _left_? Just _left_?”

“I said he was pureblooded, Belle.” Frida shrugged. “Not that his parents were … you know … the _best_ sort of people.”

“But his father is in the Ministry. You _said_ ,” Trish pointed out, sticking her chin out and turning a gaze she no doubt thought was fierce onto Frida. “They aren’t the best people now, but they might be someday, especially if his father does well for himself.”

“Someday, Trish. Someday.” Frida waved a hand. “Anyway, Vivianne was speaking, wasn’t she? Telling us about her class.”

“Indeed.” Vivianne smiled, a little tightly. “I was. As I was saying, Sybilla and I were with Zachary and another Hufflepuff, Spencer Hood. We were assigned to the foyer, where we were cleaning mosaics.”

Vivianne went on, telling them how the class had gone. But as she spoke, she wondered how it was that she could appear to tell all – when in truth, she was leaving so much out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? An update on a Sunday? Well, now that our beta reader is done, we thought we'd move to a three-update-a-week schedule. So, thanks for reading, and if you liked what you read, please leave a comment or some kudos! :)


	8. Chapter 7: It's a Mud Eat Mud World

**Chapter 7: It’s a Mud Eat Mud World**

“Seriously, Beau, where did you learn how to dig? Pansies R Us?” Ben asked, shaking his head.

“Was that a pun?” Lucinda asked curiously. She seemed to be more interested in the wand shoved into the back pocket of Beau’s school slacks (or something in that general area, at least) than the plant he was attempting to dig up, even though she was the one who was supposed to be recording the clippings and samples that they found. Even with the best of the Ministry’s experts and expert contacts – aided by the far more extensive contacts of Igraine Gorlois, if the rumor mill was to be believed – behind them, these gardens were a puzzle to everyone.

After they’d covered the courtyard and found nothing more interesting than a toppled statue and that vase in the first couple of classes, someone had decided that since they only had so much time until fall killed everything off, they were probably better off applying themselves to the gardens.

However, Ben did notice the smart planting of the gardens: even in the Scottish winter, the garden might go dormant, but it wouldn’t die. The delicate plantings and fragile ornamentals were sheltered by hardier grasses and supported by trellises of vines and ivy.

Ben shrugged in answer to Lucinda’s question, watching Beau dick around with the garden trowel for about thirty seconds longer before holding his hand out for it with a scowl.

“If you think you can do better …” Beau huffed as he got to his feet.

“If I can’t, I’ll be far harder on myself than you could be,” Ben muttered to himself, gently brushing the loose dirt that Beau had accumulated away from the stem of the plant. He picked up the trowel to carefully dislodge the rock that Beau had been chipping away at like a tentative woodpecker on a piece of granite.

“O-oh, I’ll have to r-remember th-that,” Rowan murmured. Ben’s eyes flicked up at her; he noticed Lucinda and Beau also throwing a glance her way. “I-it’s a very g-g-good t-technique for—for moving rocks o-out,” she said toward her shoes. “W-where’d you l-learn t-that? I d-don’t th-think Professor S-Sprout t-taught us anything l-like i-it.”

“My aunt says God loves poor people, weeds, and rocks best because he made so many of ‘em.” Ben smiled at her. “You ever wonder why so many farmers have rock walls around their gardens? ‘Cause for every plant you plant, you’re gonna have a dozen weeds and three times that in rocks. Shorter, less colloquial answer? My aunt has a _huge_ vegetable garden at our ranch, and I’ve been weeding and de-rocking the damn thing since I was old enough to tell the difference between a pea plant and a weed.”

“If you have a farm, of _course_ you’ve got a garden,” Beau informed him.

Ben bent lower to the ground to look at the stem of the plant, giving him a chance to regulate the snark; he did have to get along with this guy for the next year.

Of course, in regulating the snark, he ended up dialing up the accent.

“A ranch and a farm ain’t synonymous. A farm has plants, yeah. A _ranch_ don’t need much beyond some grass, because a rancher raises _animals_ , not plants. Now, a smart rancher puts in one or two cash crops on the fields where they’re not grazing—to offset costs—at th’ verra verra leastwise, they put in alfalfa an’ hay for feed. But you put in five hun’erd acres of anything an’ you ain’t weedin’ it by hand—you plowin’ that mofo.”

“That _what_?” Mr. Bellerose asked.

“I have no idea—and quite frankly, Mr. Bellerose, I don’t want to know. Hand me that clipboard,” Lipskit said from elsewhere in the garden. Ben shook his head.

“Okay, I think … I have this.” Ben wiggled the tuber in its hole and gently lifted. “Whoa, mama! Well, either the master of the house had adequacy issues, or the mistress was single.”

“W-w-why d-d-do you s-s-say that?” Rowan asked, leaning around a planting to look at the root he held.

“Because this ain’t a carrot, sweetheart,” Ben said. Rowan blushed to an adorable cherry color, which promptly took on an eggplant-y purple tinge when he held up the … very, very phallic tuber for them all to see, complete with a glans-like tip.

“Maybe it was just a random—oh my Merlin!” Ms. Caymen gasped, finally getting a good glance at the root.

“Here, hold that for me.” Ben tossed the root at Beau, who fumbled with it like Ben had just tossed him a dung-bomb. “Lessee if it were a fluke? We got another one of these right here.” Ben dug up a second tuber, more quickly this time, knowing that the root structure was not overly spread out.

“Nope,” Ben announced cheerfully, holding up an even _more_ phallic – if possible – looking root. “I’d say these are supposed to look like that.” He tossed the second to Beau, who was holding the two roots as far away from himself as possible.

“Why am I holding these?” Beau asked in a strained voice.

“Because I’m pretty sure you’ve got more experience holding the like than these young ladies do—an’ if you don’t, that’s none of our never mind, old boy,” Ben told him.

“Oh, oh Merlin!” Beau actually looked a little nauseated.

“Oh, come off it—or not—I mean, we are in public—it’s just a tuber that looks kinda like a one-eyed wonder worm. The human body is nothing to be ashamed of—I mean, unless you’re dealing with adequacy issues yourself. Me? I’m good.”

Rowan had made a little squeak somewhere in there and promptly spilled herself over a clump of grass at the last piece. While Beau and Lucinda gaped at Rowan, Ben was staring at the wall she’d thumped against.

“Did that thump sound—hollow?” Lipskit asked.

“Yes. Yes, sir, it did,” Ben agreed as his head of house asked the very question he’d been thinking himself.

* * *

Falling into a wall and very nearly onto your behind was always a great way to stop laughing at a wholly inappropriate – but somehow very amusing – series of jokes. Rowan was grateful for that. She was less grateful for the fact that she had fallen into a wall, but she’d take what she could get.

And given that she had some experience falling into walls … she could definitely say that this one sounded hollow.

She scampered away from it, brushing off her skirt and getting out of the way of Professor Lipskit, Mr. Bellerose, Ms. Caymen, and Professor Lipskit’s cane. Ms. Caymen shot her a sidelong glance. “Are you all right, Rowan?”

Not trusting herself to speak without a stutter, Rowan restrained herself to a nod.

“Stand back,” Mr. Bellerose said to the four of them, probably unnecessarily, as the three adults examined the wall.

Professor Lipskit tapped on the wall with the pommel of his cane. “Hmm …” Slowly, he tapped out an area about two feet wide, moving from solid to hollow to solid again. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked Ms. Caymen.

“A secret passage!” she gasped, staring at the door with what could only be unrestrained glee.

Mr. Bellerose’s gaze travelled up the wall of the castle. “We believe that the mistress’s bedroom overlooks this garden …”

“Well, that would explain the tubers,” Ben murmured, low enough that Rowan didn’t _think_ the adults could hear – though one never could tell with Professor Lipskit. “Probably the secret passage, too.”

Rowan had to throw both of her hands over her mouth so that she wouldn’t laugh out loud.

“ _Really_ , Ben?” Lucinda asked.

“What?” he asked, his greenish-gray eyes going comically wide.

“You’re gonna kill Rowan if you keep that up! If she doesn’t trip over something else, she’s going to explode!” She winked at Rowan as she said this.

“Not my fault I’m funny,” Ben shrugged, though he glanced at Rowan. “You all right, darlin’?”

Rowan closed her eyes and nodded, still not trusting herself to speak.

When she opened them, the adults were still conferring over the doorway. “But how would you get it open?” Ms. Caymen was asking.

“Perhaps it only opens from the inside?” Mr. Bellerose mused.

That was when Rowan noticed something she hadn’t before.

Looking at it, it was obvious – so obvious that she assumed at first that it had to be a trick of the light. After all, the adults were standing right there. How could they not see it?

But they didn’t seem to, and … well …

Rowan glanced at Beau, Ben, and Lucinda – but they didn’t seem to see it, either.

“Um,” she swallowed. “Um, P-Professor …”

Professor Lipskit turned to her with a raised eyebrow. Rowan gulped again. “Isn’t—isn’t th-that a handhold?”

“A what?” asked Ms. Caymen, looking – as Mr. Bellerose and Professor Lipskit also did – to where Rowan was pointing.

“Well, well, Ms. O’Blake. Well spotted,” Professor Lipskit mused, stroking his chin. “It does indeed appear to be a handhold.”

Both Ms. Caymen and Mr. Bellerose turned slightly impressed looks to her, Mr. Bellerose’s lingering for a fraction of a second longer.

Then Professor Lipskit glanced at his colleagues. “I think that this calls for getting the rest of the group over here to have a look, don’t you?”

For once, there wasn’t any arguing.

* * *

Only a class at Hogwarts, Ben mused, could go from phallic tubers to secret passages in the space of ten minutes. Unsurprisingly, Professor Kilduff was even more excited by the prospect of a secret passageway. Secret passageways were key to mysteries, and Ben knew that Professor Kilduff loved mysteries. More than once he’d heard her recommending various titles, usually to Vivianne. He always pretended to be both deaf and not there when the latter was enthusing about the books she had been reading, including some very Muggle selections.

He was fairly certain the Slytherins’ queen didn’t know that he knew about the books, though, because she’d never threatened him to try and keep him quiet. She wouldn’t have to. Ben knew what the Slytherins would do to her if he mentioned her reading Muggle books to anyone, and he wouldn’t be responsible for that.

Still, she didn’t know that—and Slytherins as a rule were not prone to thinking that Gryffindors were overly abundant in integrity, so she wouldn’t have assumed it of him.

“Beau—what are you holding?” Autumn gasped. In the excitement of finding the passageway, Beau had seemingly forgotten that he was holding the tubers. He looked down at his hands and a look of horror crossed his face. Vivianne and Sybilla started snickering behind their hands.

“Just some phallic tubers,” Ben said cheerfully, plucking the roots from Beau’s hand. Beau might have been a stuck-up, judgmental twit, but Ben was not without pity, even to people who thought he was an idiot. “We were just speculatin’ about the proximity of these to this here secret passage an’ the lady of the house’s bedchamber,” he finished just as cheerfully.

“Benjamin!” Autumn did a near-literal pearl clutch at the pendant she wore, a completely horrified look on her face.

“What?” He looked around the horrified faces of his fellow students, almost all staring at him as if he didn’t know. He knew—but it was so much more fun when he acted like he didn’t. “C’mon, you can’t tell me nobody here’s ever considered a masturbatory aide, even in the abstract? I’m pretty sure Des would count hers as the most important thin’ in the drawer she keeps it in—an’ considerin’ that’s the drawer she keeps her clean panties in, that’s pretty damned important.”

“W-well—uh—it—it does imply that the master of the house—uh—wasn’t …” Colwyn offered when no one else spoke up.

“Nah, not really. Rubbin’ the magic lamp doesn’t mean your sex life is unfulfilling.” Ben shrugged. “Des’s is—I’m pretty sure my cousin hangs a chalkboard beside the bed complete with tickmarks. If’n you’re bangin’, you orgasm, it ain’t over til she orgasms. She’s very equal opportunity like that.” Ben smiled.

“Oh, Merlin,” Autumn whispered. Most everyone probably agreed with that sentiment—except Vivianne and Sybilla, who seemed to have entirely too straight of faces, the kind you got when you were trying not to dignify something with a laugh but you wanted to anyway. He guessed that was less at what _he_ was saying and more about how everyone else was responding to what he was saying.

“You—you are wrong,” Autumn finally said, fanning her face with her hand.

There were lots of things that Ben could probably say here, especially given the somewhat bossy way she declared it, but he did get the impression that he might have gotten into this class on sufferance. Most of those things had ways they could have turned out badly.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to decide. “If I could call your attention away from the … so fascinating tubers and back onto why you’re actually in the garden – before Mr. Moore’s tongue or sense of humor completely gets the better of him,” Professor Lipskit said. “We have this door here.”

* * *

Vivianne, along with the rest of the class, turned her attention to the door.

She wondered how it was that the teachers were claiming that this was a _secret_ passage. The handhold was quite obvious from where Vivianne was standing. She brushed the hair away from her face, frowning slightly—and frowning more when a few strands got caught in her ring.

“Rowan found the passage,” Ms. Caymen went on, smiling at the small blond. “It was a fortuitous coincidence.”

“That means that she fell into it, doesn’t it?” Vivianne muttered to Sybilla.

Sybilla didn’t answer in words, but her raised eyebrows and her slow smile were answer in plenty.

“She also found the handhold,” Ms. Caymen went on, pointing to the handhold.

“Handhold?” Colwyn asked.

And to Vivianne’s surprise, she found that many of the students – and even Professor Kilduff and Professor Zanetti – were staring at the spot where Ms. Caymen was pointing, frowning and brows furrowed. Even _Sybilla_ had her head cocked to one side and was watching the space very carefully.

Perhaps that was why Vivianne heard herself say, “It’s right there.” And she gestured. “Right where Ms. Caymen is pointing.”

Tristan Potts was the first to blink and say, “Oh! Oh, I see it now!” After he spoke up, everyone else nodded. Even Sybilla.

And Vivianne … even though she was watching everyone else, she could feel eyes upon her. She looked around.

No one was looking at her.

A shiver snaked its way down her spine, and for reasons she couldn’t quite comprehend, she found herself glancing up.

“Anyway—Rowan—since you’re the one who found it, do you want to do the honors and open it?” asked Ms. Caymen.

Rowan had been watching her feet, but she looked up, eyes very wide and – _You_ must _be joking,_ Vivianne thought, rolling her eyes – a blush creeping across her face. “M-me?”

Vivianne glanced sidelong at Sybilla, and Sybilla sent her a smirk in reply.

When she turned back to the teachers, Professor Lipskit was looking in their direction with a raised eyebrow.

“Sure—why not?” Ms. Caymen asked, waving her forward.

Blushing even more ( _Where does all of that blush come from?_ ), Rowan went up the door, wiping her hands on her skirt. She put her hand into the handhold, took a deep breath, and tugged.

Nothing happened. Vivianne took a deep breath and sternly told the laughter that threatened to bubble up to go back where it came from.

Rowan swallowed, squeezed both of her hands into the handhold, and tugged again.

Once more, nothing happened.

“Maybe she should try a spell?” asked Lucinda.

“No, no,” said Ms. Caymen, even as Rowan went for her wand. “That’s—that’s not best practice. You don’t want to go shooting spells at doors, especially not secret doors. You … don’t know how they’ll react.”

Rowan took both of her hands out of the handhold and stared at Ms. Caymen, jaw hanging open.

But she didn’t say anything. Instead, she took another deep breath, grabbed the handhold again, and pulled—again.

This time, something happened.

Rowan slipped on wet grass and fell onto her rear.

Vivianne’s laugh came out in a strangled snort—and she wasn’t the only one. Vivianne couldn’t see Rowan’s face, but she would bet half the contents of the family vault at Gringotts that she had turned the approximate shade of an aubergine.

Mr. Bellerose, who was closest, extended a hand to help her up. Rowan took it.

“Are you all right?” asked Ms. Caymen.

“Y-yes,” Rowan said. “Um—I d-d-don’t think I can get the d-d-door open. S-s-sorry.”

“No, no, that’s perfectly all right. I can see … erm …”

“Perhaps some of the students who found Ms. O’Blake’s attempts so amusing might want to try their luck?” asked Professor Lipskit, leaning on his cane as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

_Is that a challenge?_ Vivianne wondered. She raised her hand. “I’ll try, Professor.”

“By all means,” Professor Lipskit said, waving her forward.

Vivianne tossed her hair over her shoulder and sauntered over. Rowan took one look at who was coming and scuttled rabbit-like out of the way. Vivianne barely spared her a glance.

She put her hand into the handhold. It was a tight fit; her fingers were crammed and her ring was jammed between finger and stone.

She tugged, and the door opened in a smooth, easy motion.

That was the end of her triumph. Because no sooner had the door open than a small avalanche of mud came cascading out.

Vivianne jumped away from the door just in time. “ _Bloody hell_!”

* * *

Zach – like most of the class – also jumped back from the torrent of mud that poured forth from the empty passageway. They were far enough back that the plants shielded them from most of the splatter, though a couple of people, Ben and Autumn most notably, did get a bit spattered when the mud went through a bush. Autumn scowled and took her wand out of her robes, muttering quickly as she removed the mud spatter; Ben simply shook his head and sighed. Rowan quietly asked something that Zach couldn’t hear; Ben shrugged and said “Karma, pro’ly.”

“F-f-for w-what?”

“Giving Beau and Autumn grief, all the dick jokes—general existence,” Ben shrugged again. Zach smiled faintly as Rowan’s eyes tracked the movement of his shoulders and then flickered up at Ben’s face with a faint flush. “All of the above, maybe?”

“Modesty and self-deprecation in a Gryffindor?” Colwyn snickered. “We should probably alert the _Prophet_.”

“I’m pretty sure Muhammed don’t care.” Ben shrugged. Colwyn frowned as he looked at the Gryffindor. “The Prophet, Muhammed? Founder of Islam?”

“The _Daily Prophet_ ,” Colwyn said flatly. “The newspaper.”

“Oh, well, why didn’t you just say that?” Ben asked curiously. “I doubt they care either.”

“What should we do about that mud?” Mr. Langley asked.

“It’s _mud_ —this is a _garden_ ,” Lipskit told him blandly. “I’m pretty sure the plants here have been exposed to mud before.”

“You can’t just _leave_ it!” Mr. Bellerose exclaimed.

Lipskit looked from the mud to Mr. Bellerose, back to the mud.

“While normally I’d agree with Professor Lipskit,” Ms. Caymen said, earning her a black look from most of the Ministry instructors, “we _are_ trying to catalog these plants and some of them are pretty delicate. I don’t think we dare let them just sit under the mud while it dries out.”

“Point,” Lipskit said, leaning against his cane and studying the track of mud, before looking around at the various students. “Alright, I guess we’ll pull you away from cataloging plants and put you to cleaning up this mud.”

“What?” Beau protested.

“It’s not _our_ fault that there’s mud all over the plants!” Lucinda echoed in protest.

“They’re right! Vivianne’s the one who opened the door,” Autumn pointed out.

“But it’s hardly _her_ fault that the passageway was full of _mud_ ,” Colwyn argued back. “I’m quite sure she’d never have volunteered if she had known it was full of mud; she got hit the worst with it. Besides, the hapless little half-blood was the one who _found_ the passage. And she’s in _your_ group.”

“Mr. Priddy, we use _names_ —not blood status—to refer to people in this class,” Lipskit said.

“And if it had been up to _Rowan,_ the door never would have gotten opened. I believe you were chortling over her attempt to open it,” Lucinda fired back.

“Ladies, gentleman, this is getting a little loud,” Professor Zanetti told them.

It, however, didn’t stop the argument. House and group pride had been roused, and Lucinda and Colwyn had no intention of backing down so easily.

“Vivianne, I hate to ask?” Professor Kilduff asked, looking sadly at the arguing students and then at the mud.

Vivianne hesitated for just a second – if he hadn’t been watching her, Zach might not have even noticed it.

“Certainly, Professor.”

“Mr. Priddy, Miss Wolf—let’s go,” Professor Lipskit said thumping his cane on a rock. “We’re heading back to school— _now_. Ms. Caymen, if you could see to the rest of the group?”

Ms. Caymen nodded.

“You can’t do that!” Colwyn sneered.

“I just did. Get your arse in gear, Mr. Priddy,” Professor Lipskit said.

“I’ll talk to Professor Yaxley about this!”

“That’s between you and Professor Yaxley. Move, Priddy.” Lipskit gestured sharply with his cane, and _finally_ Colwyn’s self-preservation instinct caught up with his mouth. He shut it.

“I will stay and aid Mademoiselle Gorlois,” Mr. Bellerose declared.

Something twisted on Vivianne’s face, just for a moment, though her bottom lip remained caught between her teeth for a moment longer.

“I’ll stay too if that’s all right, Professor?” Zach heard himself offering.

“That is surely not necessary, Monsieur Duncan,” Mr. Bellerose said, not noticing the look that Zanetti shot him, Zach’d bet every bit of pocket money he had. The narrowed eyes, the set of the brows.

“I don’t see where there’s a problem,” Professor Zanetti said, voice neutral. “Three work faster than two.”

“I just do not feel as though one instructor should be alone in the ruins with two students under his … purview,” Mr. Bellerose offered.

“Lipskit is currently frog-marching two students through the Forbidden Forest all on his own,” Zanetti countered.

“ _Oui_ , however, your Professor Lipskit is—your Professor Lipskit, no?”

“Besides, Ms. Caymen and Mr. Zabini are over there. Even if a horde straight out of the Forbidden Forest legend came dashing out of that passageway, you’d hardly be alone.”

Mr. Bellerose nodded and stepped back. “As you say, Madam Professor.”

* * *

The mud burbled, slurped and gurgled as it made its slow way out the door. A bubble slowly formed and just as slowly popped. Vivianne glared at it. It was one way to avoid looking at both of the – _gentlemen_ – who had offered to help her.

Vivianne rubbed the bridge of her nose and watched the encroaching mud, sizing it up as a general would size up an approaching army. “Well, gentlemen,” she asked as the rest of the class retreated to their tasks, “how shall we handle that?”

“ _Aguamenti_ is probably only going to make matters worse,” Zach mused. Vivianne glanced at him, and he smiled at her.

It must have been an automatic reaction – that was all. He was a Hufflepuff, for Merlin’s sake! They actually _liked_ other people – for themselves, not just as pawns on a chessboard.

Still, Vivianne felt her lips twitch slightly in response. There was no point in upsetting a potential ally, even if the alliance would be short-lived.

“It seems to me to make the most sense to Vanish it,” replied Monsieur Bellerose. “That is something that you two would have been taught, yes? You must forgive me—the system at Beauxbatons, it is somewhat different, and I can never remember what is different and what is the same.”

“We’ve covered it,” Zach replied. He pointed his wand at the mud. “ _Evanesco_.”

The mud glooped. It burbled and slurped. But at least there was somewhat less of it.

Monsieur Bellerose and Vivianne looked at the mud. They glanced at each other.

Vivianne sighed and rolled up her sleeves. “Best get started. _Evanesco_!”

“ _Evanesco_!”

Vanishing Spells were fired at the mud from three directions. Vanishing mud was nowhere as difficult as Vanishing a mouse – or even a snail – but the difference was that a mouse or a snail, once Vanished, _stayed_ Vanished. The mud seemed to be springing forth from an inexhaustible source somewhere in the ruins.

Vivianne only paused in her work to take a quick swig from the bottle of pumpkin juice she always kept in her bag. It was warm, with scarcely a cloud in the sky, and even the monotonous work of casting the same spell over and over again sooner or later called for a drink.

But eventually, it came to an end. As they worked, slowly, the new mud stopped replacing the old mud at the same rate they made it Vanish. Eventually, there stopped being new mud. And finally, the old mud was only a thin coating on the leaves of the bushes and plants, which Vivianne and Zach washed away with _Aguamenti_ while Monsieur Bellerose took care of the worst of the rest of it.

Finally Vivianne stepped back, surveying the rest of the plants. She glanced at Zach first, then Monsieur Bellerose. “I think—I think it should be good, now. There’s no more mud than what you’d find after a hard rain …”

“And these plants have survived many a hard rain, I should think. _Oui_.” Monsieur Bellerose nodded. “Very well. Good work, the pair of you. And perhaps …” He glanced at the door. “Perhaps next class, some of you may get to explore what is inside this door – now that we have cleaned up the area for everyone.”

Vivianne snorted, but Zach was glancing at his watch. “It’s almost time to go,” he said. “Vivianne – sir – we should probably get back.”

“Ah—yes,” Monsieur Bellerose replied, looking at his own watch. He glanced at the pair of them, then at his watch again. “I must confer with Monsieur Zabini. You two—you will be all right getting to the courtyard without me?”

“Certainly,” Vivianne said. “And—thank you, both of you, for helping me.”

“ _Avec plaisir_ ,” replied Monsieur Bellerose, inclining his head. Vivianne tried not to blink. That was a … strong response for helping someone out with a thankless task.

“No trouble,” Zach said with a shrug and a smile, and Vivianne forced herself to focus on that.

They turned and headed to the courtyard, where the rest of the class would be meeting in a few moments. As Vivianne fiddled with putting her wand back into her bag, the silence stretched between her and Zach.

She had to break it, so she did. “I—I do mean it,” she said, her lower lip catching between her teeth for a fraction of a second. “Thank you. You didn’t have to stay.”

“It wasn’t any trouble,” Zach repeated. Then, with a smile, he added, “You could even call it the curse of the Hufflepuffs.”

“The curse of the Hufflepuffs?” Vivianne raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me – but Hufflepuffs don’t seem like the type to attract curses.”

“Oh yes, we’re all terminally nice,” Zach replied, still grinning. “And it’s a curse.”

Vivianne stared at him. And then, without warning, startling herself as much as Zach, something extraordinary happened.

She laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment or some kudos if you're so inclined. :)


	9. Chapter 8: A Salute to Frogs & Pants

**Chapter 8: A Salute to Frogs & Pants**

Ben flicked his wand at the playing card lying on the bottom of one of the boxes, and a frog appeared in the card’s place. Ringo quickly Stunned it and put the box in a stack with the others. One of Professor McGonagall’s policies had been that anyone wishing to contribute some house points could choose some classroom supplies that the school went through a lot of – frogs were always a popular choice – and turn them in for house points, a point per frog. It was a policy, Ben reflected, spinning the familiar length of maple in between his fingers as Booker transfigured another playing card into a frog, that had saved Ben and his friends from being completely ostracized by their house.

On the average lazy afternoon, the boys could go through an entire deck of playing cards, which was fifty points right there. It might not have added a lot of points, but it usually did balance out whatever they’d lost that particular week.

“This is a lot easier when Cam’s here to help me shove boxes,” Ringo said.

“Detention,” Ben reported when they looked at him.

“Of course, if you’re not in class—or here with us—where else are you?” Booker rolled his eyes.

“He could be off snogging Selena.” Kenny made kissy faces at Ringo, who batted his lashes, his face briefly becoming feminine. Ringo was a Metamorphmagus, and he’d been doing that since their first day at Hogwarts.

“Are they back together?” Booker asked, something in his voice causing Ben to turn toward the burly red-haired boy.

“You know Selena and Cam; they’re like two magnets.” Kenny gestured with his fingers, making a little sound effect as he did it.

“But the last break-up was bad, I heard.” Booker sighed and flipped onto his back, staring up at the clouds dotting the blue sky like cotton balls in a child’s mixed media piece.

“They aren’t all bad?” Ringo asked cynically.

“Point.” Booker sighed. “I’d … just hoped—” He cut the sentence off.

“Hoped what, Book?” Ben asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“I know this is gonna sound bad—but I think both of them … could … be happier with someone else,” Booker admitted. “I like Cam. I like Selena too. I just don’t think the two of them—look, this could end badly. Very badly. And not just in a ‘tempestuously horrid break-up’ sort of way. Hit Wizards, plus one of the biggest criminal cartels in Wizarding Britain? You could be dumber than a Slytherin Beater and see that ending coming.”

“They care about each other, Book,” Ben pointed out.

He sighed again. “I know they do. Look, I’m not trying to be a downer. Let’s just get back to these frogs.” Booker contorted back into a sitting position, facing them again. “Where were we?”

“Deuce of diamonds.” Ringo tossed a card into a box.

“Forget the frogs; I’ve got something even better.” Cameron dove in to close the circle around the box, a manic look in his blue eyes. The boys tried not to jump.

Booker, by some miracle, was the first to recover. “If that look is any indication, forgetting the frogs is the last thing we should do. I think we’ll need them,” Booker told him.

“You’re a bloody cynic, McChurch.” Cameron laid a hand to his chest like he was wounded.

“… Is whatever you’re thinking likely to get us into trouble?” Booker asked. Cameron said nothing. “A cynic is what an optimist calls a realist.”

“I present to you gentlemen an opportunity of _truly epic proportions_.” With that, Cameron flipped out a pair of large, star-spangled blue underpants.

“What is that supposed to be—one of Professor Yaxley’s girdles?” Booker asked.

“You could fit two of Yaxley in those.” Ringo looked at Booker skeptically. “Believe me, even my mum’s industrial strength Spanx can’t take a person that size and make them the size of Yaxley.”

“Your mum’s got an industrial strength Spanx? For what?” Ben asked, confused.

“On stage?”

“I guessed that. I more meant—your mom’s um—tiny—to begin with.” Ben rubbed the back of his neck.

“Who knows?” Ringo shrugged.

“Besides—even Yaxley doesn’t have that bad of taste. There’s only one person on staff whose taste is this bad.” Cameron grinned.

“Oh, no, no! Merlin’s bleeding beard, _no_ , Cam!” Booker shouted, apparently matching the article of clothing with that one very special person’s very special lack of taste. “We’ll have nothing but detention and sleep outside of class if we do anything but put those back wherever you found them!”

“They’re not Lipskit’s.”

“He’s the bloody _headmaster,_ Cameron!” Booker protested.

“Live. A. Little.” Cameron rolled his eyes.

“Well, before I go agreeing with either of you, tell me what you’ve got,” Kenny said with a gleam in his eye better suited to Cameron.

“I’ve got a flagstaff and Rove’s pants.”

“Now all we need is a chorus to sing the ‘Star-Spangled Banner,’” Ben muttered. “What?” he asked as Kenny and Cameron looked at him, excited – and Booker looked at him horrified. Ringo … wasn’t actually looking at him. He was looking at the pile of boxes with the frogs in them.

“But I don’t know the ‘Star Spangled Banner,’” Kenny said, having also shifted his gaze to the pile of boxes.

“What about ‘God Save the Queen’?” Ringo asked. “As we’ve got that chorus.” He patted the boxes right then.

“Hello, career in Vegas, hand me those undies, would you?” Ben said, a grin splitting his face. He knew it was stupid, dangerous even; it could have gotten him kicked out of school or at the very least his archaeology class.

But some things … some things just had to be done full-out.

“I hope you all know, if—no, when, _when_ we get in trouble for this, I am throwing you all under the bus,” Booker informed them, his tone resigned. “You’re all insane. And you owe my mother an apology when you get me kicked out of school.”

* * *

About the time that Hogwarts was going to dinner, a light flashed in the courtyard, accompanied a few moments later by a second, third, fourth, all converging on the flagpole to illuminate a flag – of sorts – of blue blowing proudly in the breeze, the yellow stars upon it shining with the gaudy light of an Elvis impersonator convention. Below, arranged in tiers, were frogs, and as the first students stepped out into the courtyard, a lone frog soon joined by a dozen others began to croak “God Save The Queen.”

It was, when Ben had time to think of it later – and he had plenty of time to think of it later while in detention – a truly _magical_ moment.

* * *

_Oh—my—Merlin_.

Rowan and her friends had been in easy view of the courtyard when _the spectacle_ occurred. They must have been heading into dinner, but from where? She was never able to remember later.

But she’d never forget what had happened when the first light flashed.

Rowan had looked up from whatever she had been doing, staring out the door at the flashing light.

And then there was another. And another. And a fourth. They all converged on …

“Merlin’s fucking beard,” Aubrey whispered, and he didn’t even get a scold from Blair. “Is that—is that what I think—?”

_That_ was a pair of—Rowan blushed—men’s pants. At least she thought they were men’s. At this distance, it was hard to tell.

Except … there was only one person in the school who was both that size and who would actually wear dark blue underpants embroidered with bright yellow stars …

_Oh Merlin!_

She barely had time to process that thought as she was swept along with the crowd toward the door. This was Hogwarts. This was a _spectacle_. Everyone wanted front row seats to whatever happened next. And it was just as the crowd started to fill the courtyard that the croaking began.

Then – then _it_ came. At first it sounded like a choke. Then a snort. Then—

Rowan doubled over, and there was no stopping the guffaws.

She wasn’t the only one, either. Jon was leaning on her, and Quill was leaning on Jon. Candice was on her own, but she was practically screaming as tears ran down her face. Aubrey was laughing, and even Blair had a pinched expression as she watched the frogs croak their way through “God Save the Queen.”

Then even she gave up and started laughing.

And when Rowan looked around – when she _tried_ to look around – she caught flashes. A knot of prefects from different houses burying their heads in each other’s shoulders so that nobody would see them react. All of the first-year Hufflepuffs were practically crying, including little Miri whom Zach worried so much about. Even the Slytherin Quidditch team, just coming in from practice, was standing together and laughing, all except for James Fawley … and even he was coughing in a very suspicious manner.

The whole school, it seemed, was laughing, and the laughter continued until the doors to the castle banged open. “What on earth,” came a _very_ familiar voice, “is the meaning of—OH MERLIN’S BEARD!”

Unfortunately for everyone, that voice was Professor Rove’s. Unfortunately for Professor Rove, his reaction just made everyone laugh harder.

But Rowan could feel sorry for him, she really could, even if she was still laughing too hard to breathe properly. He was staring horrorstruck at the pants flapping in the breeze. His normally rather florid face was almost white.

At least, it was until he started shouting. “LEO! GET OUT HERE RIGHT NOW!”

That was the signal for the teachers to exit as well.

Professor Yaxley was one of the first out, and when she saw the display – well, Rowan almost felt sorry for her, too, though not as much as she felt sorry for Professor Rove. Her eyes went wide and she put both of her hands over her mouth in an expression that was probably supposed to be a gasp but that wasn’t convincing, not at all.

Others had similar reactions. Poor Professor Kilduff was trying to hide her mirth by burying her head on the shoulder of Professor Puccini, the Transfiguration instructor. For his part, Professor Puccini was trying to hide behind Hagrid. As for Hagrid, he wasn’t bothering to hide – his booming laugh echoed off the flagstones and went soaring into the night.

But he could laugh. The only parties that had been able to remove Hagrid from Hogwarts for any appreciable length of time were dementors, Death Eaters, and Dumbledore. Professor Rove didn’t stand a chance.

One of the last to come out was Professor Lipskit. And he was one of the few that didn’t laugh or have to pretend not to laugh. His eyebrows merely rose …

And he stood, very stiffly and most correctly, hands at his sides, until the last frog stopped croaking.

“LEO!” Professor Rove shouted. “What—you— _what are you waiting for_?”

“For the song to be over, of course,” Professor Lipskit replied. “Wouldn’t want to go disrespecting the national anthem.” His eyebrows lifted. “Was there something you needed?”

“That—those—my—” He hopped from foot to foot, pointing at the flagpole. “Do you see that?!” he demanded.

“I do,” Professor Lipskit replied.

“Well? What do you intend to do about it?” Professor Rove asked.

Professor Lipskit waved his wand. “ _Accio_ pants!” The pants unhooked themselves from the flagpole and floated over to Professor Lipskit. A lazy flick of his wand ensured they stayed floating. “I suppose we ought to return these to their proper owner …”

“I—we—give me those!” Professor Rove sputtered. He snatched the pants out of the air and stuffed them up the sleeves of his robes. “Leo, I’ve about had enough of your—your—those five!”

“Which five?” asked Professor Lipskit.

“ _You know which five_!”

“Hmm … well, I suppose I do,” he conceded. “Still, how do you know they did it?”

“Who—who else would?” Professor Rove snapped, throwing his hands out. Unfortunately for him, his sleeve flapped open, putting his pants in full view once again. “Ask them! Ask them and see if they don’t admit it!”

“Very well.” Professor Lipskit looked up. “De Falco—Moore—Vasile—Garen—McChurch—a word, if you please?”

The five Gryffindor boys marched through the crowd to where Professor Lipskit and the rest of the professors were standing. “Would you happen to know anything about this?” asked Professor Lipskit.

The boys looked at each other, and it was Ben who was first to speak. “Yes, sir.”

“Would you happen to be _behind_ this?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” said Ben once again.

“It seems you were right,” Professor Lipskit remarked to Professor Rove. “Clean up this mess, then to my office.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ben, and the boys headed back to the flagpole.

All except Kenny. “Um … Professor Lipskit—about the frogs—we were going to donate them to the Potions department, so—”

Professor Lipskit raised an eyebrow.

Kenny stopped talking.

“I’m sure Professor Yaxley will appreciate that,” Professor Lipskit replied. “Now get moving.”

Kenny got moving.

“Was there anything else you needed?” Professor Lipskit asked Professor Rove.

Professor Rove looked at Professor Lipskit – then at the flagpole – and the frogs – and every student in the school – and Professor Lipskit again.

“This is a very serious matter, Leo,” he said, drawing himself up to his full height. “I expect you to treat it with all of the seriousness it deserves!”

“Understood. Anything else?” Professor Lipskit asked. His voice was just this side of polite – which, considering this was Professor Lipskit, probably ought to be put down as heroic self-restraint.

Rowan could see Professor Rove grinding his teeth even from where she stood. “That—that is all, Leo! I expect that those boys will not try anything of this— _scandalous_ —nature again!” And without another word, he pushed past the rest of the teachers and stomped back into the castle.

The laughter started to pick up again, in fits and starts, at least until Professor Lipskit “accidentally” tapped his cane against the flagstones. “I hear there’s dinner in the Great Hall,” he said, almost conversationally. “So, what are you all standing out here for?”

The school got the hint in record time.

* * *

As always seemed to be the case with Cameron and Ben’s pranks, the school was still buzzing about the prank in the courtyard two days later. Not least because that very morning several large, bright, exotic birds arrived for the group of boys responsible. No one knew exactly what the letters said – or exactly whom they were from – but rumor had it that George Weasley had heard about the prank, and the letters were either congratulations or offers of employment post-Hogwarts. Possibly both.

Zach had to wonder, though, as he sat in the library working on a report about Acromantulas for Care of Magical Creatures, why they had done that. Sure, it was hilarious – for everyone except Professor Rove – even the Slytherins had had themselves a good laugh. But Professor Rove’s patience was not inexhaustible, and that meant they needed Lipskit, the strictest, most straight-laced of the instructors to stand for them. And that – at least to Zach, who granted was a Hufflepuff and not a Gryffindor who counted bravery in its many house traits – was an awfully tenuous thread to hang the remainder of your academic career on.

They never even tried to hide that they were behind it. Ben would always cop to it when asked, and the other boys seemed to know that he would. So, every time they pulled one of these pranks, they knew they’d be getting into trouble for it – and they still did it anyway.

Spencer was spinning his quill around on a piece of parchment and glancing across the library at something. Zach tried three times to see what he was looking at—it seemed to be in the restricted section—but he saw nothing.

“Spence?” Zach finally asked.

“Yeah?”

“Is—is everything—uh—okay?”

“Fine. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Because that was the same rune you were translating ten minutes ago?” Zach offered sheepishly.

“I—it’s nothing.”

“Does this ‘nothing’ … have a name?” Zach asked innocently enough.

Spencer shot him a look.

“Spencer.”

Zach’s head swiveled toward the speaker—and so did Spencer’s, though the rate at which the quill was spinning increased.

“Sybilla. Can I—we—uh—help you?” Spencer asked.

“I was looking for that book, actually.” She pointed at one in the stack of books beside Spencer, tossing a lock of black hair over her shoulder. Zach was far more used to seeing Sybilla with pin-straight hair, often tied back in a knot of some sort. Today, however, it fell in lazy curls that flattered her face far more than the sensible styles she normally wore.

“Oh—uh—I don’t need it at the moment.” Spencer dug the book out of the stack and thrust it at the dark-haired Slytherin. “I need to get this translation done before I move onto Potions theory anyway. Your—uh—your hair looks—nice.” Spencer pushed a lock of sandy blonde hair out of his face.

“Belle.” Sybilla shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Every time the latest magazine comes, she’s not happy until she can duplicate all the latest styles—especially if they come from the continent.” Sybilla looked at a curl, an unreadable expression on her face.

“My sister, Cyn, does that to my youngest sister, Marty.” Spencer offered a quarter of smile.

“Yes, well, I can sit still, don’t have a ton of product in my hair, and am not constantly bothering Belle as she works. That’s not easy to find in Slytherin—about the only other person who’d work is Vivianne, who does her own hair, thank you.” Sybilla shrugged, and Spencer’s smile increased from a quarter to a third.

“Shhh,” Madam Pince scolded with a scowl.

Sybilla looked over her shoulder at the librarian. Zach wasn’t quite sure what Madam Pince was on the receiving end of, but she didn’t hiss at them again.

“Please—uh—sit. Does it bother you? Belle experimenting on your hair?” Spencer asked.

Sybilla slid into the seat that Spencer pushed out with his foot with surprisingly graceful economy of movement, though Zach did briefly wonder _why_ he found it surprising. He couldn’t recall Sybilla ever plunking into a seat like Juliette did.

“As long as she doesn’t block my book, not really,” Sybilla said. “Belle, thankfully, has excellent taste. And she never goes for the faddish, outré styles. She doesn’t chatter while she works. Occasionally she’ll read over my shoulder and ask questions—but those dry up when I ask her not to.”

Spencer chuckled. “I’d imagine.”

“I do ask, you know. It isn’t all glares and scowls.” Sybilla smirked. “Which is good, because Mother says that I really shouldn’t have scowl wrinkles at sixteen.”

“Really?” Spencer asked. “I don’t think Mum’s said anything to Cyn or Marty since the whole ‘if you keep making that face, it’ll freeze that way’ thing stopped working on them.”

“If you’re looking for normalcy—there are many, many, many places to go before stopping by Cromwell Manor, Spencer.” Sybilla propped her chin on the palm of her hand, offering Spencer a smile as he laughed quietly. “Besides, I suppose all things being equal, I should be grateful. Mother took after the snobby-yet-vapid side of the Carrows—not the ‘let’s traumatize an entire generation of students so that people do that finger cross-y thing …’” she made an X with her fingers, frowning at it until Spencer reached across the table and tilted her hand so that the fingers made a T instead, “‘…every time the name gets mentioned’ side.” She put her head back on her hand, though smiling at Spencer.

Maybe Zach was reading things in that weren’t there, but he’d have sworn that Spencer almost seemed reluctant to draw his hand back.

“That takes a—special—sort of person.” Spencer shrugged.

“Like me, perhaps?” Sybilla asked archly, some sort of challenge in the tone that Zach couldn’t quite place.

“I’m quite sure you’re capable of doing _anything_ you set your mind to, Sybilla,” Spencer told her; whatever the challenge was, Spencer wasn’t backing down, though his tone and expression hadn’t really changed.

“That I am,” Sybilla said, her silver eyes seeming more like mercury in that moment, shifting as they met Spencer’s violet.

Spencer simply smiled that same rueful quarter-smile at her.

* * *

“Trish, are you _sure_ you want this straight?” Belle was asking as she frowned over Trish’s mousy brown locks. “I think you’d look much better with the one that has the lazy waves. At least with the length you’ve got …”

“Straighter looks longer,” Trish replied. “I’m trying to grow it out.”

Trish, Vivianne reflected as she sprawled out on her bed, frowning over her History of Magic essay, had been trying to grow out her hair since … third year? Either Trish’s hair grew uncommonly slowly – she should have probably seen a Healer about that – or she needed to learn how to tell her hairdresser to cut less.

Vivianne tapped her quill against her lips and glanced again at the essay assignment. _The pure-blood doctrine is widely held to have risen to prominence in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Explain the causes of this rise and the tenets of the movement at this point in history._

She rubbed the bridge of her nose. This was one of the periods that her grandmother researched, which meant that she … knew things. The problem was that what she knew from her grandmother did not always match up to Professor Binns’s interpretation of the “facts.”

She’d made the mistake of complaining about this once to her grandmother. Igraine had merely raised her eyebrows, amused. _“That, Vivianne, is the challenge,”_ she had said. _“Find a way to tell the truth while still relaying the so-called ‘facts’ as Professor Binns understands them.”_ Igraine had frowned. _“Though—I suppose I had best admit that at your age, I was far from mastering that art. I usually just regurgitated the facts as Professor Binns wanted to hear them and did my research when his back was turned.”_

_If Grandmother couldn’t do it …_ Vivianne thought. _No, she didn’t say couldn’t. And that was last year. OWL level. Perhaps there is more room for interpretation at NEWT level …_

_He can’t actually believe all that tripe he tries to sell us about historical “facts,” can he?_

She glanced at the outline she had prepared. She certainly had the facts that Professor Binns had mentioned in class and those in the assigned chapters in _A History of Magic_. And her interpretation wouldn’t be _too_ far from the one Madam Bagshot had espoused. She had even found some of her grandmother’s research texts – the ones they had at the Hogwarts library – to back her up …

_What the hell. He can’t bloody fail me as long as I mention his facts and fill enough scrolls._

Dipping her quill into the inkpot, Vivianne swept her hair over her shoulder and began to write.

She had most of her first paragraph written before Trish’s voice intruded on her thoughts.

“You’re going to wash my _hair_?”

“Trish,” Belle said, very gently and almost apologetically, “you’ve got a lot of product in here. I need to wash it out if I’m going to be able to work.”

“Well—all right—but not yet! Let me get my shampoo!” And barely giving Belle a moment to respond, she hopped up from the chair and ran out of the dorm room.

Vivianne looked up and raised an eyebrow at Belle. “Does she really think that her shampoo would be better than yours?”

Belle frowned. “Well, Mum does make mine special for my hair …”

“She could use mine if it came down to that,” Vivianne snorted, shaking her head and turning back to her essay.

She had finished her first paragraph and was starting on her second when Trish came running back in. “Here it is!” She pressed the bottle – an awfully small bottle – into Belle’s hand. “Locks of Love!”

“This is shampoo?” Belle asked, squinting sidelong at the bottle. Vivianne looked up.

The bottle was quite small – and was that a heart-shaped stopper? _What the hell?_

“It’s the newest from WonderWitch!” Trish grinned, glancing at Vivianne as if she was inviting her to share in a great secret. “Use it as shampoo, and the boys will come running when they smell it. It’s like—a love potion and a shampoo all in one!”

Vivianne raised an eyebrow. “What, all of them?”

“Uh huh!” Trish nodded eagerly.

Vivianne glanced at Belle. Belle was frowning at the directions on the back of the bottle. “Just use a handful,” said Trish, unstoppering the bottle. “That’s what I do!”

The minute the stopper came off, a sickly-sweet smell filled the room – it was pure cloying femininity, boiled desperation, _eau de clingy girlfriend_ bottled and sold. Vivianne coughed as the stomach-churning scent filled her lungs. Even Belle frowned and quickly stoppered the bottle. “Er, Trish … this isn’t a shampoo.”

“Wait—what?” Trish asked, squirming around to read what Belle was reading.

“It’s—I _think_ it’s more like leave-in conditioner. And you’re only supposed to use a drop. It says here,” she pointed, “to apply it right after you’re done washing your hair, just to gently massage it into the scalp.”

“Oh …” Trish rolled a lank lock of hair between her fingers. “Do you think … do you think that maybe that is why my hair is getting so oily?”

“… That might have something to do with it,” Belle mused, somehow not sounding scornful or sarcastic at all.

“Well, we can still use it, right? I mean—I’m meeting Antony Quince later, I managed to convince—I mean—we’re studying for Astronomy together …” She moved to unstopper the bottle again.

And that was enough for Vivianne. Muttering a couple of charms, she swept her things off the bed and hurried from the dorm. She was _not_ going to be in the room when the stopper came off the bottle again.

Neither Belle nor Trish seemed to notice her leaving.

Once she got to the common room, it wasn’t hard to find an unoccupied alcove with a desk. Vivianne murmured the charms to deposit all of her things on the desk and hurriedly sat down. Tapping her quill against her nose, she tried to regain her train of thought.

It didn’t come easily. The first interruption came from a wandering nose. Vivianne almost jumped, but when she looked down, it was only a black-and-tan ball of fur – Canyon, her cat.

She permitted herself a single smile. “Hello, my fine feline friend.” She reached down to scratch him behind the ears.

No such luck. Canyon ducked his head out of range, his yellow eyes narrowed at Vivianne as he sniffed her fingers with the greatest suspicion. Satisfied that it really was her – and that she was a tolerable person to have around – he permitted her to give him a single scratch behind the ears.

But just one. As soon as Vivianne was finished, he stepped off to the side – just out of her reach – and began to wash himself.

Vivianne rolled her eyes. She glanced again at her paper.

And that was as far as she got. “I thought I’d find you here,” came a slow, drawling chuckle.

Vivianne looked up again. “Oh … really?” she asked. She pushed quill and parchment off to the side, raising her eyebrow. “And why is that, Blake?”

Blake leaned against the wall, hands thrust deep in his pockets and his uniform tie loose around his neck. It was the picture of ease, confidence, nonchalance. Barely even moving, he nodded at Canyon. “That cat. You walk into the room, and he’ll get up from wherever he’s been lazing and head right to your side.”

“He does?” Vivianne glanced at Canyon. “Is that true, Mr. Canyon?”

Canyon had stopped washing himself and was shooting Blake a look of pure feline disdain.

Vivianne chuckled. “And here I thought he only tolerated me.”

“That might true, Vivianne … but if it is, you’re the only one he tolerates.” Blake smirked.

“I’ll take it.” Vivianne shrugged. “So …” She leaned back, draping herself around the chair. “What can I do for you, Mr. Skinner?”

Blake blinked—he actually blinked. “Do?”

“Well, you are following my cat to try to locate me.” Vivianne shrugged again. She watched as Blake’s eyes followed the line of the movement, the way her hair spilled over her shoulder and rippled on the way down. “I’m assuming you needed something.”

“Ah.” Blake returned a smirk. “I was only looking for the pleasure of your company, Miss Gorlois.”

“You flatter me,” Vivianne purred.

Blake only smiled. He took a step into the alcove. At this distance – while Vivianne was still seated – he seemed very tall indeed. She almost had to crane her neck to look at him. “That’s my intention.”

“Is it?” Vivianne stretched—and, in the course of her stretch, she grabbed her wand. “ _Accio_ chair!”

A chair came floating into the alcove and tapped Blake in the knees, and when he jumped, it was there to catch him as he almost collapsed into it.

“Well, then,” Vivianne went on as he stared at the chair and then, smilingly, at her, “if that’s your intention … keep going, Blake. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

He chuckled. “With pleasure, Vivianne. With pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave some kudos or a comment if you enjoyed it. We don't bite, honest!


	10. Chapter 9: Welcome to Heartbreak Hotel

**Chapter 9: Welcome to Heartbreak Hotel**

For a dude who had no problems with bedazzling his headmaster’s underpants and running them up the flagpole – for one who had helped build a beach in the girls’ bathroom – for one who had pulled a hundred or so pranks that could have gotten him into far more trouble than they actually had – Ben was coming to realize there were places where he just lacked sheer nerve. And they were places he didn’t understand why he did lack the nerve.

He knew Rowan wanted a chance to work with Beau. He wanted to work with Lucinda– probably equally – and if he was any judge, for the same reason. He knew Lucinda passingly; he just … wanted to know her _better._ If Ben had been his cousin, not only would he have talked to her, he’d have had her halfway to sleeping with him by now. Not that that was exactly Ben’s intention. Sleeping with someone with Peeves around? Not for all the galleons in Cam’s trust fund.

But he wasn’t Desi, and not just because he lacked tits and the ability to read minds, so he was stuck with shyly— _shyly_! Since when was he _shy_?—trying to work it around in class to working with her. There were only a handful of configurations of students that a group of four could have been broken into pairs … yet somehow when they did break into pairs, it was always him and Rowan. Today it was Ms. Caymen’s fault, though he didn’t really blame her for it. She was thinking about what was best for the class, not knowing about student interplay.

She was worried about the fact that the frosts would be coming soon; it was mere days to the equinox. He and Rowan were better at Herbology. It made more sense for them to be culling samples of the truly delicate plants and giving them over to Lucinda and Beau for cataloging. But that was logical – and what teenaged boy was very logical with a person he _liked?_

“Oh,” Rowan practically mewled, catching Ben’s attention. He glanced at her, then tracked to where her large green eyes were locked. Lucinda was sitting close enough to Beau that her rich red hair nearly smacked him across the face when she flirted it over her shoulder. And not only didn’t Beau seem to mind, he actually leaned closer to her, whispering something in her ear. Lucinda did that head tip-back laugh that Ben knew so well from watching Desi.

Rowan’s face briefly crumpled and she sat back on her heels, plant cuttings briefly forgotten. A taunting voice – very much like his cousin’s – went through his head then. _“You snooze, you lose, Benny-boy.”_ He knew that. Opportunity wasn’t nearly as persistent as a Jehovah’s Witness or a Girl Scout with a quota to make.

“Mr. Ormonde, Miss Wolf, might I remind you that this is an archaeology class, not a biology one?” Professor Lipskit boomed right then. “If you want to snog—do it later. Miss Wolf, get over there and get those samples from Miss O’Blake.”

A little color might have touched her face across her nose and cheeks, but then again it might have been just a trick of the light too.

Lucinda intelligently didn’t grumble about walking over to where Rowan and Ben were in the garden and grabbing the samples Rowan floated toward her, which in and of itself was … _odd_. Or would have been, for someone who didn’t have a guess about Rowan and how she felt about Beau. She usually just let Lucinda come pick the samples from where she knelt.

Their cutting was harder work. Why should _they_ be wasting time to save Lucinda a few seconds when the other group obviously had enough time for Lucinda to practically start making out with Beau?

“Need any help with that row of grasses? I’m about done with these flowers,” Ben offered as Rowan shifted a little further away from Lucinda. She pushed her glasses up, leaving a dirty smear on one lens. She took them off to clean them and promptly dropped them on the carved marble sundial by her side – which would have been fine, it wasn’t a far enough fall to break them, if while attempting to snatch them back up she hadn’t managed to tangle the handle of a satchel full of gardening tools and pull it off onto the sundial.

The small hammer in the tools hit her glasses with a crack that left little mystery as to what state her glasses were now in.

“Oh, Merlin’s bloody bathrobe,” Rowan said with a groan, groping for her wand in a way that reminded Ben just briefly of Velma in Scooby Doo and peering into the mess of tools. Ben saw the length of willow peeking out, the butterfly carved like a pommel on the end. He leaned over and grabbed it, handing it to Rowan before she could really register that he’d moved. She shied back from the movement when she saw the wand offered to her, knocking into the bench and rubbing her shoulder, only to knock a stack of parchment off the corner with her hand.

“ _Accio_ glasses pieces,” Ben muttered, waving his wand. A couple of quick spells and the glasses were in one piece again. He handed them to Rowan who was muttering and looking in Lipskit’s general direction, so he guessed she probably swearing, something he didn’t blame her for at all. He leaned over and seated the glasses on her nose with a rueful smile.

Rowan blinked as he guessed he came back into clear focus. Her eyes briefly locked on the smile, and a blush bloomed in the apples of her cheeks.

“Uh—er—t-th-th-thanks,” she stammered out.

“No problem,” Ben said with a shrug. “I wear reading glasses myself; I get it.”

“Oh—I’ve—uh—I g-guess I’ve n-n-never s-s-s-seen you in the-them,” Rowan said, setting the tool bag firmly on the ground and loading the tools back into it.

“Vanity. I’m not dignified-looking enough to make glasses look good, so I leave them off when I’m trying to impress pretty girls.” Ben shrugged.

“I wish I could do that,” Rowan muttered, oddly not stammering the statement – maybe because she was speaking to herself and not to him.

“You want to be petty and shallow?” Ben asked, picking up the stack of scrolls off the ground. “I’d expect more of you, Rowan,” he teased when she looked at him.

“Y-y-you’re p-pretty alone in th-that. M-m-my dad—and Jon m-m-maybe.” Rowan sighed.

“At least I move in august company.” Ben smiled again and shrugged ruefully when Rowan shot him a hard look.

“M-m-most people wouldn’t say a M-M-M-Muggle is a-august c-c-company,” she said, though her eyes were flicking back and forth between Ben’s eyes and his lips.

“Yeah, well, most people are idiots. Some of the best people I know are Muggles,” Ben answered as Rowan shoved the hand rake back into the bag.

“Everything all right?” Ms. Caymen asked.

“I-I t-think so, M-Ms. C-Caymen,” Rowan told her. “M-my g-glasses are b-b-back in one p-piece, th-thanks t-to B-Ben and—all the t-t-tools are b-back in the bag.”

“We should probably get a move on, then—the rest of the class has already gathered in the courtyard.”

Rowan looked horrified as she apparently realized that they _were_ actually alone in the garden. Ben got to his feet and offered Rowan a hand to get to her feet. She blinked at his hand for a moment before taking it and standing up.

They entered the courtyard and everyone turned to look at them – except, he noticed, Beau and Lucinda. Lucinda was too busy flirting with Beau, and Beau was too enraptured, apparently, by the flirting to notice. Rowan’s shoulders drooped, and she stared at the toes of her Mary-Janes.

“Maybe they’ll fall down a well,” Ben muttered to her behind his hand. She looked at him a moment in shock, before smiling ruefully.

“If t-there were a w-w-well f-for th-them to fall down on our w-way back t-t-to school—s-someone w-would have fallen in it by n-now.”

“Okay—maybe into an Acromantula web then.”

“Y-you’re t-t-terrible,” Rowan said, though she was still smiling.

“Yep,” Ben agreed. They walked in agreeable silence back to the school.

“You kn-know—if …” Rowan trailed off—as Ben looked at her.

“Hmmm?” Ben prompted.

“If—if you w-w-want t-t-too t-t-talk a-ab-about, y-you know—s-s-stuff, I-I—I’d listen.”

“Thanks, Rowan.” Ben smiled at her—anything more would be cut off because Rowan’s friend—Candice?—spotted Rowan just then.

“Awesome, you’re back! I need somebody who understands _grounding_ to help me wire this. Jon was trying to help—and almost got us both electrocuted—and Quill took one look at Jon’s hair and told me I was out of my bloody mind if I thought he’d be holding those wires next,” Candice said, then looked hard at Rowan. “What’s wrong?”

“N-n-nothing,” Rowan said to her shoes.

“Right, right. You know I’m gonna keep pestering you ‘til you tell me, so give it up.”

Rowan just stared at her feet – and then Lucinda tossed her hair over her shoulder and leaned into Beau before sashaying off toward the school doors.

“Ugh—boys. Uh, no offense,” Candice looked at Ben.

“You think boys don’t know we’re dogs?” Ben shook his head. “We just keep pretending we don’t know in hopes that you’ll pretend you don’t notice.” Even Rowan offered half a smile at that. “Well, I should probably get to dinner. All this detention time is severely cutting into my homework time.”

“So’s that mean no more pranks from you guys?” Candice sighed.

“I said we weren’t completely unself-aware—not that we were smart.” Ben shrugged and turned toward the school.

* * *

 

Dinner was … not pleasant, but not unpleasant, either. Rumor spread quickly, and by the time Rowan went to join her friends at the table (after begging off helping Candice, if only because she wasn’t touching any wires until Candice explained _exactly_ what she was trying to do and Rowan had a chance to research ways to prevent Candice’s enthusiasm getting them both killed), pretty much everyone already knew. Aubrey was smiling sympathetically; Blair mentioned that she “just happened” to have some extra Fizzing Whizbees for dessert if Rowan would like some. Quill and Jon were both glaring in Beau’s direction. Jon was subtle, Quill was not, and Beau was oblivious.

So Rowan had plenty of sympathy throughout dinner.

After dinner … Jon had Quidditch practice, Quill was meeting with his study group for Muggle Studies, Aubrey had Dueling Club and Blair was meeting with Professor Puccini for her advanced Transfiguration study. Even Candice was meeting with her Potions study group, which, given how much work it had taken Rowan, Jon and Blair to convince her to _join_ said study group, Rowan was not going to argue with.

So, since this was as good a time to try to research “how not to kill oneself when working with electricity” as any other time, Rowan headed to the library.

Of course, she reflected as she looked through the card catalogue to try to find some likely contenders, the problem was that this was the _Hogwarts_ library. There were some books explaining electricity in the Muggle Studies section, but they were generally less than helpful, especially since many of the authors understood electricity about as well as Rowan understood quantum mechanics. But there were other books in the Natural History section …

Rowan was browsing that section, glancing at titles and seeing if or when serendipity might strike, when she heard two voices coming closer to her.

“I wish Antony would have bothered to do the research,” came Trish Abbot’s voice, sighing.

“You’re the one who wanted to study with him,” replied Frida Rowle.

_Bloody HELL!_

They were coming closer, too—

Rowan grabbed the first book that looked likely and dashed out the near side of the aisle just as Frida and Trish were coming around the far side.

She paused, hiding in the next aisle of books, listening. “What call number were we looking for again?” Trish asked.

“Fehu-three-seven point Perthro-four-Berkano.”

Rowan looked at the call numbers on the shelf nearest her. It still took her a moment to parse the combination of numbers and runes, figuring out what would come next—

“Oh, damn, that’s the next row down!”

Swearing under her breath, Rowan hurried down the aisle, head ducked and book clutched close to her chest. Frida and Trish hadn’t tried anything since last year – but that was only because Rowan was much better at taking evasive action this year than she had been last year. And if Frida and Trish were in a mood … and they caught Rowan alone … not even Madam Pince was scary enough to stop them from starting something.

Rowan would just check out this book and dash back to Ravenclaw tower before she could get caught. She emerged from the stacks of books—

_Where was Madam Pince?_

She wasn’t at the desk! Why wasn’t she at the desk? Rowan couldn’t check out if she wasn’t there!

_Damn, damn, damn, damn—_ She could hear Frida and Trish’s lilting, complaining voices behind her, closer with every second.

She needed to do _something_ —

And then she saw it. Or rather, him. Ben Moore, sitting alone at a table, a large tome open before him. Rowan bit her lip and looked over her shoulder.

If there was one thing that Frida and Trish were smart about, it was that they were disinclined to start anything when there were witnesses around. They wouldn’t even bother Rowan when Candice or Quill was with her – and as Muggle-borns, they rated even lower in Frida and Trish’s estimation than Rowan did. So maybe if she sat at Ben’s table, they’d leave her alone.

“Here it is! Now let’s get out of here,” Rowan heard Trish say.

Decision made, Rowan dashed to the table where Ben was sitting. She tripped on an uneven bit of floor, but she managed to catch herself on a chair and keep moving before she could fall. Or damage the book, which would have been just as bad.

“B-B-Ben?” Rowan whispered as soon as she was close to the table. She had a hand on the back of a chair already, and it was trembling.

Ben looked up. For a moment they simply stared at each other. For her part, Rowan was disconcerted by the gold-rimmed glasses Ben was wearing.

He didn’t look bad. Not bad at all. He’d said he wasn’t distinguished-looking enough to pull the glasses off, but—

Rowan shook her head. She didn’t have time for this. “Um—d-d-do you m-m-mind if I s-s-sit here?”

There were at least three empty tables nearby. He must have thought she was mad. He must have been wondering why on earth she was insisting on invading his privacy. He must—

He smiled, and Rowan’s heart began to pound even more. “Not at all. Have a seat.”

Rowan flashed him a grateful grin and practically collapsed into the chair. “Th-thanks,” she stammered.

“No trouble,” Ben replied. He pushed his glasses up his nose and glanced again at his book.

Rowan took a deep breath and opened hers.

That was as far as she got before she heard a familiar – grating – laugh. “Can you _believe_ that?” laughed Trish.

“Yes,” said Frida.

Rowan had her back to them. There were plenty of small blonde girls at Hogwarts, even small blonde Ravenclaws. If they didn’t see her face, they might not recognize her. She’d call it a slender hope, except it had worked an embarrassing (for them) number of times before.

But Ben was facing them. He looked up.

Rowan watched as his eyebrows went up. He glanced at Rowan and then at the girls. “Jest out o’ curiosity,” he whispered, “would the reason why you wanted to sit with me have anythin’ to do with those two Slyth-a-bitches walkin’ over there?”

_Slyth-a-bitches?_ Rowan wondered, but she nodded. “Y-y-yes. S-s-sorry—”

“Don’t apologize,” he said, turning that smile on her again. “Should I get ready to start throwin’ hexes?”

“What? N-n-no!” Rowan gasped. “I—I m-m-mean—they usually l-l-leave m-m-me alone if I’m w-w-with s-s-s-someone else.”

“Gotcha,” Ben murmured. But all the same, Rowan couldn’t help but notice how he put his polished maple wand on the table, in easy reach.

Rowan swallowed and stared at the table. But after a moment’s hesitation, she made her sure her wand was easy to get to, too.

Madam Pince would have probably flayed the pair of them alive if she had realized what they were thinking. But after last year …

Rowan took a deep breath and forced herself to look at her book, even if her ears were listening to every last footfall. And every last comment, too.

“Where’s Madam Pince?” Trish asked.

“Not where she’s meant to be,” Frida sniffed. “Come on—grab a table and we’ll wait.”

_Oh, damn!_

Two sets of heels clicked closer, but mercifully stopped a few tables away. “This is good enough,” Frida said.

Rowan listened closely to the scrape of a chair, the whisper of cloth, the thumps of bottoms hitting the seats. Her hand, almost unconsciously, went to her wand and slowly closed around it.

She glanced up, but Ben had turned back to his book. He ran a hand through his espresso-colored hair, frowning, probably at something he was reading.

“Awww,” came a squeal, far too loud for a library, but relatively quiet for Trish. “Look, Frida. It’s another Gryffindork and Rave-and-Claw, all paired up.”

Ben went stiff. So did Rowan. _Damn, damn, damn!_

She did _not_ need to think about Beau and Lucinda right now! And by the look on his face, neither did Ben.

“Well, you can’t blame the Gryffindorks,” Frida sneered. She probably knew that they could hear every word. “After all, it’s only if you combine a Gryffindork’s brains with a Rave-and-Claw’s brains that you get a normal person.”

Trish laughed, and Rowan winced. Ben, she noticed, was taking a deep breath, the kind you took when you were trying to calm yourself down.

“D-d-don’t l-l-listen to them,” Rowan whispered. She had no fear of being overheard and recognized that way. Frida and Trish’s hearing wasn’t nearly as good as their speaking was loud. “They—th-th-they’re … horrible,” Rowan finally settled on.

Ben looked up at her with a sardonic raised eyebrow. “Is that so?” he asked, voice as low as Rowan’s, even if a smile was poking at the corner of his lip.

“B-b-believe it or n-not,” Rowan replied with a ghost of a smile of her own.

Trish laughed – at what, Rowan didn’t know – but it was her best laugh, the one that had all of the sweet harmony of nails on a chalkboard. Rowan winced, and so did Ben.

Rowan had learned the hard way that the only way to drown out Trish’s laughter was to try to distract oneself from it. So she swallowed and asked the first thing that popped into her head. “S-s-so—are you—o-okay?”

_STUPID, Rowan! STUPID!_

If she could have crawled under the table and hidden there, she would have. But she couldn’t, not without attracting more attention. So she had to sit there, blushing from forehead to down below the neckline of her uniform, while Ben turned his gaze to her.

He shrugged. “Ain’t much I can do about it, even if I’m not.”

There was something heartbreaking about that, even if it was philosophical, stoic, _sensible_. Rowan found herself frowning in sympathy.

But Ben shrugged, seeming to brush away sympathy with the gesture. “You?” he asked.

Rowan forced herself to shrug as well. “The s-s-same, I g-g-guess.” There were many things she could have said – about Lucinda – about Beau – but she wouldn’t, not while Ben was sitting here. He probably didn’t want to hear the things Rowan couldn’t help but think about Lucinda any more than Rowan wanted to hear the things Ben probably couldn’t help but think about Beau.

“Are you _kidding_?” Trish squealed, giggling, and Rowan winced.

“S-s-s-so, um …” Rowan groped for another topic of conversation. She asked the first thing that popped into her head. “W-w-what made y-y-you d-d-decide to j-j-join the archaeology c-c-class?”

Ben looked up with raised eyebrows. Rowan winced. “S-s-s-sorry. It’s—I d-d-don’t m-m-mean to b-b-be a d-d-distraction. At l-l-l-least n-not from y-your w-w-work—”

Ben raised his eyebrows even farther, but now he was smiling. “Honey, if you think you’re the biggest distraction in this room – even from work – you’ve got another think coming.”

Rowan giggled – or at least she wanted to, but she’d found that Frida and Trish _could_ pick out her giggle. So she muffled the sound by laughing into her robes.

“But to answer your question …” Ben shrugged. “I want to go into Curse-Breaking after I get out of school. So I heard about this class and thought—perfect fit.”

“Oooh,” Rowan nodded. “It—it is.”

“Yeah. So—you?” Ben asked, gesturing to Rowan with his quill.

“M-m-me?” Rowan asked, flushing. “Oh … um …”

She should have realized that he’d ask. It was only polite. But he’d answered, so she didn’t have much excuse not to answer herself. “Um – d-d-do you know about the G-G-Gorloises?”

“Queen Vivianne an’ the rest?” There was a definite amused spark in Ben’s eyes. “I’ve heard of them. All-witch clan, think they’re descended from Morgan le Fay.” He raised an eyebrow. “Are you related?”

Rowan’s eyes went wide; how had he _known_?

“Sorry,” he said, catching her expression. “It’s just—Cam knows everything.”

_Cam? Oh—Cameron de Falco. Of course._ Rowan nodded. “I—I s-s-see. Um. I’m n-n-not— _really_ r-r-related—but my m-m-mum was. Before she m-m-married m-m-my d-dad. She—she g-g-got kicked out, b-b-because of that.” Rowan shrugged. “I’ve always b-b-been c-c-curious, b-b-but—I d-d-don’t w-w-want to ask her. It’s—sh-she doesn’t l-like t-t-talking about it.”

“I see,” Ben replied, although there was something—some fleeting expression—that suggested to Rowan he didn’t, not quite. But if that was the case, why wouldn’t he just say so?

Ben blinked a couple of times, then his gaze fell back to his book. Flushing, Rowan looked back at her book as well.

She probably would have made another attempt at conversation, the next time Trish spoke if not sooner, but ironically, the next time Trish spoke put an end to that thought. “ _Finally_!” Trish huffed.

“Took Madam Pince long enough,” Frida muttered.

_Oh, thank Merlin!_

But Rowan waited until she heard their footsteps retreat into the distance before she turned around to watch them. And she waited until Trish had checked out her book and they were on their way out of the library before she stood.

Ben looked up. “Leavin’ so soon?” he asked, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“You’ve g-g-got work t-t-to do,” Rowan replied, nodding to his book. She could see now, based on the mathematical formulae she could just glimpse, that it was on Arithmancy. “I’ll g-g-get out of y-y-your h-h-hair. Thank—thank y-y-you, by the w-w-way.”

Ben raised his eyebrows. “Thank you?”

“For …” Rowan shrugged. “B-b-being n-nice.”

And Ben smiled. He really _did_ have a nice smile. “No trouble, darlin’.”

* * *

“Because she’s your friend. Really, what kind of question is that?”

“An honest one, Jon,” Zach said, crossing his arms over his chest and looking at his best friend in exasperation.

“Is this more ‘straight blokes don’t get into their straight girl friends’ love lives’ nonsense? You know Quill has already had to practically be restrained from going and pounding on Beau, right? And he’s as straight as you are.”

“I think Quill is just a shade more protective of his friends—and Rowan in particular—than I am. I was in Flitwick’s mini-lecture when Professor Yaxley stormed in and dragged him off to chew on him about his Ravenclaws threatening her Slytherins. It was pretty obvious that she was talking about Quill,” Zach reminded Jon, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Jon _tsk_ ed as he looked at Zach, using a quick charm to smooth the hair back down.

“Jon,” Zach sighed.

“Sorry,” Jon said it in a way that made it obvious that Jon was not the slightest bit sorry. “It’s not my fault if my Adonis requires perfection at all times.” He pinched Zach’s cheek.

“Really, Narcissus? Whose fault is it, then?”

“The nature of the beast, love.” Jon turned and started walking toward the courtyard once more. “Still, it’s not like you to not be sympathetic.”

“About w-what?” A familiar voice asked from a bench by the door.

“I thought you were going to be outside,” Jon said to Rowan who was practically fortified into place by a stack of books.

“I w-w-was—b-but—well, i-if I-I-I h-hadn’t t-t-told you I’d b-b-be m-m-meeting you t-th-there I-I-I w-wouldn’t b-b-be h-here a-at a-all.”

“Was it Frida and Trish?” Jon asked at the same moment Zach asked if it was Beau and Lucinda. Rowan just hung her head and looked at her feet.

“Y-y-yes,” she whispered.

“To me? Or to Jon?” Zach asked, slipping onto the bench so when she looked up again she wouldn’t have to crane her neck quite so far.

“B-b-b-both,” Rowan spat out, her voice cracking. Jon sighed and sent Rowan’s stack of books to another bench so he could squeeze onto the one with Rowan and Zach.

“Jon, you do realize these benches are really only supposed to fit two people.” Zach scrunched over to the side to give Rowan as much room as he could, given that she was now sandwiched between him and Jon.

“Oh, pish. Rowan—while a whole and complete person in all other matters—doesn’t really count as a person when it comes to occupancy rules,” Jon dismissed. Rowan probably would have smacked him if she could have moved her arms. She settled for giving him a dirty look. “Besides, we all fit onto that bus seat and it was a tighter squeeze than this bench.”

“D-didn’t I e-e-end up hitting y-y-you i-in th-th-the—uh—y-y-you kn-kn-kn-know?” Rowan stammered out.

“Which was totally your own fault,” Zach said to Jon, taking his wand out of his pocket. “ _Accio_ chair. You were the one who said we’d all fit and we didn’t need to tell that lady to move her bag.”

“That dog was evil!”

“It w-w-was a ch-chihuahua, J-Jon,” Rowan said as Zach shifted into the chair he’d just summoned, letting Rowan scoot over. “I would have sat next to it.”

“I’m not letting you sit next to something like _that!_ How heartless do you think I am?” Jon asked.

“I never worry about your heart, Jon, but sometimes I do wonder about your brain,” Zach told him.

“M-me-me too.” Rowan stuck her tongue out at Jon. “Y-you actually held C-Candice’s w-wires w-w-without having the first clue w-what sh-she w-w-was _d-doing_ with them. And then y-you let her c-come near y-your h-head with a pair of s-s-scissors!”

“She was just going to trim off the singed bits.”

“H-have y-you l-looked at C-Candice’s fringe?” Rowan planted her hands on her hips. “I-I w-w-wouldn’t let h-her n-near m-my h-head with a pair of s-scissors.”

“That’s a good policy,” another voice intruded. “In fact—maybe you should just let all your hair grow out—so we don’t have to see your face at all.”

“Now, Trish, that’s not a good idea—she can’t walk _now,_ imagine what would happen if she couldn’t see,” Frida chided.

“Just. Move. Along,” Jon said chillingly.

“Oh—Jon—I didn’t see you there.” Frida bit her lip, taking a step back and gripping Trish’s arm.

“Of course you didn’t. You’re very careful about witnesses,” Jon said coldly.

“Jon,” Zach said, though he was trying to remind Jon that if he went for his wand first, he’d have to take points from Ravenclaw whether he wanted to or not rather than trying to defend Trish and Frida.

“Merlin’s pants,” Trish whispered—or at least tried to. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Well, you _do_ want him to notice you,” Frida muttered.

“Not that way,” Trish said, tugging on the arm that Frida had in a death grip as they walked away.

“A-anyway!” Rowan said. “Y-you a-are just _l-lucky_ th-that B-B-Blair is _good_ w-w-with hair or y-you’d be s-sporting a m-m-mohawk or s-something.”

The door to the courtyard opened again—Rowan’s face twisting as Beau and Lucinda walked in, Lucinda tossing her red hair and laughing at something Beau said. Rowan twisted a strand of chiffon blonde hair around her finger and looked at it.

“Well, it would have given Jon a chance to practice his hair growth charms. Narcissus there would never walk around with a mohawk,” Zach teased, trying to distract Rowan.

“And you would?” Jon asked.

“No, but I’m also not the one letting Candice near my head with a pair of scissors, either,” Zach pointed out.

“You all right, honey-bear?” Jon asked after the pair had left the entrance area.

“Ain’t a lot I c-can do if I’m n-not,” Rowan offered with a faint smile. Jon looked at Zach who shrugged in response.

“I’m not sure what is more disturbing about that—your grammar or your philosophy.”

“It’s not m-m-my e-either,” Rowan admitted. “Ben told me that.”

“Ben—like Moore? From archaeology class?”

“It s-still w-works th-though. B-Beau—w-wasn’t trying to b-b-break my heart—or even squish it, ‘cause I’m p-p-pretty sure it only feels broken.” She frowned slightly. “Or m-m-maybe cracked—n-not—not even r-r-really b-broken. He—he d-d-didn’t know how I f-f-felt. How c-can I b-be mad at him f-for it?”

Zach shifted uncomfortably in his chair, hoping that Rowan and Jon wouldn’t notice. It was a foolish hope; they were Ravenclaws. When they weren’t nose deep in a book, they noticed everything.

“What?”

“Think, Jon,” Rowan shook her head. “Zach’s p-probably squashed more h-hearts than—than—B-B-Ben and his f-friends have t-turned in f-f-frogs for house p-points.”

“Merlin, I hope not that many,” Zach muttered. “And you know who else is really good at squashing hearts and being oblivious about it?”

“Zach,” Rowan said sadly.

“You’re not Michael, Zach,” Jon reminded him.

“Right, he’s p-p-probably n-not even _oblivious_ about it, he’d expect every w-woman in the room to f-fall d-down in agony over not b-being th-the woman he s-singled out.”

“Makes me glad I’m not a woman,” Jon muttered.

“He’d probably take gay men too,” Zach pointed out, scrubbing his hands through his hair again. “Anything with a pulse.”

“B-but not anything with a p-p-pulse will take him back,” Rowan offered. Zach shrugged. “Remember when he hit on m-m-my m-m-mum? Christmas, fourth-year, at the Leaky Cauldron?” she said coaxingly.

“Didn’t Elaine _hit_ him?” Jon said. He hadn’t been there, but of course he’d heard about it. Both from him and Rowan.

“Yes, s-she did. S-she p-p-punched him right in the face and would have probably turned him into a donkey right th-then and th-there.”

“If you hadn’t disarmed her.” Zach’s lips twitched, wanting to spread into a smile.

“And s-she didn’t even n-notice; s-she was too busy going off on him.” Rowan shrugged ruefully. “And he deserved it. He was four hours late. He didn’t even care _how_ you got to th-the Leaky Cauldron, and he didn’t even s-say anything to you b-before he went and draped himself all over m-m-my m-m-mum.”

“Not to mention he had a very pregnant wife at home,” Zach said.

“You’d n-never b-be your dad, Zach. It’s n-not your fault th-that girls get crushes on you—it just—happens,” Rowan said. “And th-this coming from s-someone who just had her heart s-stepped on. If it’s still b-bugging you—even if you can’t do anything about it …”

“Then you’re not Michael. Now c’mon—this is no time for you to mope. We’re supposed to be cheering up the girl with the squished heart, not you worrying about becoming that arse.”

* * *

“And that’s it, really,” finished Trish. “The two of them are just— _awful_ together. No sense of class, of decorum. Just a Gryffindork and a Rave-and-Claw snogging where anyone can see them.”

Vivianne felt her eyebrow go up, and she glanced sidelong at Sybilla. Sybilla was glancing at her.

Together their gaze moved across the common room, where Belle was sitting on James’s lap, snogging where anyone could see them, with no sense of class or decorum.

“It’s disgusting, really,” Frida drawled. She flicked the last bit of polish onto her nail and screwed the top back onto the bottle. She held her hand up to the dim light. “Do you think this looks good, Cornelia?”

“Lovely, darling,” Cornelia said. “So … Beau Ormonde and Lucinda Wolf …”

“It’s rather useless as gossip, Cornelia dear,” Vivianne pointed out. “I mean – who is going to care?”

“There’s no such thing as useless gossip, Vivianne,” replied Cornelia primly, “if for no other reason than everyone else in our year will be talking about it, and there’s no advantage to be gained from being uninformed. Besides,” she added, face becoming mulish, “not _all_ of us are lucky enough to watch the story happening right before our eyes.”

“Who’s lucky?” asked Sybilla. She flipped the page of her book on advanced Potions theory. “I for one have better things to do with my time than watch a Gryffindor and Ravenclaw making eyes at each other.”

“Of course it _would_ be Wolf who managed to get a Ravenclaw to take his nose out of the book,” Trish mused. “I mean—every boy who goes with her knows he’s going to be getting exactly what he wants out of her. The girl doesn’t know how to say no.”

Vivianne and Sybilla exchanged another glance, but this time, neither looked at Belle – or for that matter at Isolde, who had draped herself across a couch on the other side of the common room and was batting her eyes at Fabius Gamp. If Vivianne was any judge of perspective, Fabius could see right down Isolde’s shirt. And if Vivianne was any judge of Isolde, Isolde knew this and was perfectly all right with it.

“Isn’t _that_ the truth,” Cornelia muttered. She was writing … something, and she went to dip her quill in her inkwell. “Damn it!”

“What?” asked Sybilla.

“Out of ink. Ugh, I only have three more bloody sentences to go!”

“I’ve got extra ink in my bag,” Sybilla shrugged, turning another page of her book. “Use that.”

“Thanks, Sybilla. Here, hold this.” Cornelia shoved her parchment and quill into Trish’s lap and went over to the edge of the couch, where Sybilla and Vivianne’s bags were lying. Then, “Ouch! Sybilla—your bag _bit_ me!”

Vivianne was the one who looked up first. She sighed and rolled her eyes. “That’s because you’re in _my_ bag, Cornelia.”

“What?” Cornelia glanced at the pair of bags.

Perhaps Cornelia had a point. The bags were almost identical – on Sybilla’s last birthday, Vivianne had bought her the same bag she used. But there was an important difference. Vivianne’s bag was dark green. Sybilla’s was black.

The only problem was that the light wasn’t the best in the Slytherin common room.

“ _This_ is your bag?” Cornelia asked Sybilla, holding it up. As she did, Vivianne’s bag fell, the flap opening and an inkpot (mercifully closed) rolling out.

_Oh, bloody hell._ Vivianne sighed. “ _Accio_ inkpot! _Accio_ bag! _Accio_ anything else that fell out of my bag.”

As Sybilla confirmed that yes, indeed, the black one was her bag, Vivianne’s inkpot flew to her, followed by her bag, followed by … nothing at all. Which was a good thing.

Vivianne stuffed the inkpot back into the bag … and paused.

An envelope had managed to make its way to the top of the bag. It only had one word on it. It only needed one word.

_Vivianne_

_Bloody hell,_ Vivianne thought again. She’d been avoiding opening this letter all day.

But there it was, staring at her. Mocking her. It was only five years of Slytherin training and sixteen years of Gorlois training that kept Vivianne from scowling back at it.

But there really was no avoiding it, was there?

Still, Vivianne bided her time. And when enough of it had passed, she stood and stretched. “Well, ladies – I’m off to bed. We’ve got that lecture in the morning. So I’ll see you lot later. Good night.”

“Bye, Vivianne.”

“Good night, Vivianne.”

“See you in the morning.”

The only person who didn’t say anything was Sybilla – and she actually looked up from her book with a curious expression.

Vivianne tried to ignore it. She went back to her dorm room. She got ready for bed, taking longer in the routine than was absolutely necessary. Then – when her nightgown was on, her teeth were brushed, her face washed and her hair plaited in two long braids – only then did she crawl into bed, close the curtains, mutter “ _Lumos_ ” to her wand, and finally open the letter.

_Dear Vivianne,_

_Well! I’m glad to hear that you’re enjoying your class. Things are much the same as usual here. Mother is nose-deep in another research project, and she’s always got guests coming over – to talk about terribly learned things, I believe. She’s very interested in the ruins that you and your classmates are exploring, and I think she’s trying to find out more about them. I think. I’m afraid that when she starts talking, everything goes in one ear and out the other for me!_

_And I have excellent news! I managed to get a date for the Ministry’s Halloween Ball! You have no idea how pleased I am. I haven’t been in over three years, since I was going with Lovell Robards. But after we – well – after that relationship didn’t go so well – but anyway! I haven’t been in such a long time, and I’m really looking forward to it._

_Oh, but I have to tell you about my date! I don’t think I mentioned him to you in my last letter – but then, I didn’t want to jinx myself, you know? Anyway, my date. He is very handsome. Not so tall, unfortunately, but he has lovely blonde hair and warm brown eyes. In looks … he looks a bit like Orsino Thruston, from the Weird Sisters. Which makes sense. Because do you know who he is?_

_Malvolio Thruston! Orsino’s brother!_

_Of course he’s not much like his brother, other than looks … I don’t think. We don’t know each other very well yet. But I’m sure we’ll know each other better by the time the ball rolls around. And I hope he’ll introduce me to his brother. I mean, I know that you kids aren’t as into the Weird Sisters – but for my generation, oh my! Practically every witch had their poster up on her wall! And Orsino was the most handsome, I always thought. Well, other than Myron Wagtail. And Kirley Duke. And maybe Merton Graves, if you caught him at the right angle._

_But Orsino – and Malvolio, of course – is pureblooded, and the others … well, Merton Graves is only a half-blood, Kirley Duke has a Muggle grandparent, and Myron Wagtail – he’s Muggle-born, if you can believe it! Oh, it broke my heart when I found that out!_

_By the by, Vivianne – speaking of heartbreak – have you broken any hearts lately? You’re so quiet about your romantic life. You can tell me, you know! I won’t go spilling your secrets to Witch Weekly or the Daily Prophet – or, Merlin forbid, Hexim!_

_Because I do feel it’s unfair. I tell you everything – well, almost everything – and you don’t say anything at all. And I know you’ve got to be breaking hearts left and right, even if you don’t mean to. You’re too much like me not to!_

_But I should get going, unfortunately. Lamorak’s going to need to fly all night if he’s to get this to you by morning._

_Good-bye, Vivi darling, and I do hope you’re enjoying yourself. I’ll tell you all about my dress robes in my next letter._

_Love and kisses,_

_Mum XO_

Vivianne groaned and lay back.

That was all she was able to do before someone—Sybilla—twitched the bed curtains open. Vivianne sat straight up. “Sybilla!”

“Ah-ha.” Sybilla grabbed the letter. “I _thought_ so. This is from your mother, isn’t it?”

“Sybilla!”

Ignoring Vivianne’s protests, Sybilla clambered onto the bed, letter in her hand. She quickly began to scan the pages, even as she lazily waved her wand to close the bed curtains.

“Sybilla—I mean— _really_?” Vivianne huffed. “Didn’t—anyone—ever teach you about privacy? I could have been having a wank in here!”

“Not likely,” Sybilla replied. She waved her wand again, and Vivianne’s spare pillow fluffed itself so Sybilla could lean against it. “You’d have taken basic precautions if that were the case. Only your mother gets you upset enough to forget a Silencing Charm.

“Besides,” Sybilla mused, turning the page over, “even if you had forgotten precautions, the groan would sound different, I would think—oh, hello, your mother has a new boy toy, hasn’t she?”

Vivianne groaned again, burying her head in her hands.

Sybilla clucked her tongue.

“I wish …” Vivianne sighed.

Sybilla didn’t say anything. Her silence was enough to invite confidences.

Still Vivianne hesitated. This was … private. Family. Her grandmother …

She shook her head. “It’s all going to end in tears. I know it will.”

“It generally does,” Sybilla agreed.

Vivianne sighed, resting her chin on her hand. “I should be grateful that she’s got an invitation to this ball, shouldn’t I? At least she’s not crashing it.”

“Thank heaven for small blessings and all that,” Sybilla nodded.

“And Halloween’s over a month away. Who knows if she’ll still have the invitation by the time the ball comes around?” She shrugged.

“Hmm,” Sybilla murmured. She glanced again at the letter. “Is that what’s actually bothering you?”

“Sybilla—”

“I mean, really, Vivianne – your mother, whatever her faults, is rather resilient in matters of heartbreak. She mopes for a week, and then she’s right back in the game.”

“She never bloody learns, though.”

“Well, you can’t have everything.” Sybilla shrugged. “But …”

“Sybilla …”

Sybilla glanced again at the letter. “You’re not like her, you know.”

Vivianne didn’t answer, not directly. “She thinks I’m breaking hearts.”

“Well—you _are_ rather attractive. And you have exacting standards,” Sybilla pointed out. “Put the two together, and … well … a certain amount of heartbreak amongst one’s classmates is inevitable, I would think.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” Vivianne snapped.

“That’s because you’re not looking at it logically.”

“ _Logically_?”

“Yes. Logically. The heart might not be logical, but we’re not talking about your heart right now. We’re talking about your head, and that needs to be logical,” Sybilla said with some force. “And see, logically, you can’t help how others might – or might not – feel about you. And you can’t help how you feel about them. So if you’re breaking their hearts, you’re not being like your mother. You’re just … existing. It’s not like you’re toying with them.”

“Except Blake,” Vivianne muttered.

Sybilla didn’t answer.

Vivianne closed her eyes and buried her head in her hands again.

Slytherins, as a rule, did not show much in the way of physical affection – romantic relationships notwithstanding. And of course there were exceptions to every rule. Belle was never shy about giving one of her fellow Slytherin girls a hug if she thought that they might need one and wouldn’t mind getting one.

But Sybilla, for all that she was an atypical Slytherin in other ways, was very much normal in this way. Except for certain special occasions.

Like now. She put an arm around Vivianne’s shoulders and slowly, awkwardly patted her back.

Vivianne hesitated. But—the bed curtains were closed. If Sybilla’s spellwork was up to half her usual standard, it would take a troll to summon the upper-body strength to get them open again. Besides, none of the other girls probably even realized that the two of them were having a conversation.

So Vivianne leaned her head against her friend’s shoulder and sighed.

She said nothing. Sybilla said nothing.

But it was a comfort all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave us some kudos or a review if you're so inclined. Pretty please?


	11. Chapter 10: Remember Boys and Girls to Always Leave Room for the Holy Spirit Between You When You Dance

**Chapter 10: Remember Boys and Girls to Always Leave Room for the Holy Spirit Between You When You Dance**

Scrubbing at his cheek – he hated that day when the hair on his cheek wasn’t long enough to shave off, but was long enough for him to feel it – Leo leaned against the podium and surveyed the assembled students in the tiers of seats. Unconsciously, more or less, he guessed, they had arranged themselves much the way they sat in the Great Hall.

A thick strip of Gryffindors were up the left (from where he stood) side. Not surprising as all but two of his kids, in this year at least, were in the NEWT-level class. One, Jerry Thorburn, had scheduling conflicts. The other, Polly Harris, was almost as accident prone as Tristan Potts and had seemed to spend more of fifth year in the infirmary than in class. She had done excellently on her written portion of the test, and done very well, until she broke her arm, in the practical. But she had decided that maybe taking the NEWT-level class was inviting disaster to tea and had tearfully begged off taking it. She’d actually come into his office, hung her head, and apologized for deciding not to take the class.

Rumor had it – not that Leo usually cared about rumor, but it was a good way to keep a finger on the pulse of Gryffindor Tower and beyond when necessary – that Polly and Tristan were getting … _close_. Merlin knew that who you dated in sixth-year was very, very often not who you married – but he’d admit, he’d be slightly terrified to see what happened to a kid of two parents that lacking in graceful movement.

Ben Moore and his friends were here in force, probably glad for the lecture on the grounds of it meant they weren’t spending their Saturday morning in detention. They’d be back in detention after the lecture was over. He’d had to promise Rove that. Rove hadn’t even wanted to let them out of detention to attend, but the lecture was a one-off; they couldn’t make it up later, and so, unfortunately for Rove’s battered pride, they were allowed the reprieve.

There was a fairly narrow strip of Ravenclaws to the right of the Gryffindors. This was usually the case. It wasn’t that most Ravenclaws didn’t see the usefulness of taking Defense Against the Dark Arts; it was just that if it wasn’t required for a career, it was on the chopping block for many students who were taking very full schedules anyway.

But Jon McIntosh and Aqil Diaz were here, sitting as a sort of bridge to the Hufflepuffs, McIntosh was making some witty, apparently, comments. His friend Zach Duncan was laughing, and Diaz … was trying very hard not to, if the very determined scowl and crossed arms were any indication.

The Hufflepuffs were moderately well-represented, nothing like the number of Gryffindors here, but like the Ravenclaws, they were hard workers who tended to have nearly overloaded schedules.

Surprisingly – if you wanted to be stereotypical, which Leo personally tried to avoid – the Slytherins were also decently represented. It was, however, rare in the years he’d been teaching NEWT-level Defense to see more Slytherins than Ravenclaws. But this year, he did.

Of course, some things never did change, and the Slytherins were scowling across the room at the Gryffindors, and _some_ of the Gryffindors were scowling back. But some, like Moore and de Falco, were paying them no mind, apparently ready to show the world that they had better things to do than care about the scowls of the Slytherins.

Leo looked at his watch and cleared his throat.

Attention snapped immediately to him. “Gentlemen.”

* * *

Camilla stood at the front of the classroom, sipping her coffee and surveying the sixth-year girls. Overall, she was pleased. This year’s sixth years were only the second group she’d taught from their first year to their OWLs. She’d gotten three-quarters of the current sixth years to make it to NEWT level. Not a bad record.

The girls had chosen their own seats for this lecture, and overall they had clumped together with their housemates. All of the Gryffindor girls except Polly Harris were present, mostly sitting together. Hufflepuff was the next best-represented, Ravenclaw following directly behind. But only half of the Slytherin girls had decided to go on in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Camilla wished she could be more surprised. But she’d realized within the first few weeks of working with the class of 2010 that more of the Slytherin girls were worried about breaking a nail than getting a bone broken because they didn’t know what to do in a crisis. It was unfortunate, but there wasn’t much she could do about it.

Oddly enough, though, there was one group of girls that weren’t sitting with their housemates. Shae Reed, Juliette Gurriere, Claudia Churchill, and Rowan O’Blake had all grabbed seats next to each other. They sat in a strange little bubble in the dead center of the classroom, right between the Ravenclaws and the Hufflepuffs. Shae and Juliette were snickering over something, Claudia was rolling her eyes, and Rowan looked torn between joining Claudia and giggling.

Out of curiosity more than anything, Camilla looked around the classroom, wondering how the other girls were responding to this blatant display of house disloyalty. More than a few of the Gryffindors were giving Shae sidelong glances, although a couple of them had smiles for Rowan and Juliette. Frida Rowle was glaring daggers at the back of Claudia’s head, though her companions – Vivianne Gorlois, Sybilla Cromwell, and Belle Devereaux – didn’t seem nearly as offended. Some of the Hufflepuffs looked almost relieved that Juliette was someone else’s problem, and the Ravenclaws seemed more concerned with getting their parchment and quills in order and chatting with their friends to notice that Rowan wasn’t sitting with them.

Camilla glanced at the clock. When the minute hand finally ticked over to the twelve, she cleared her throat. “Good morning, ladies,” she began.

There was a rustling of cloth and a turning of bodies. Slowly, nearly thirty eyes turned to face her. A few hesitant “good mornings” greeted her, a few smiles, some bleary-eyed looks of annoyance of having to actually see the sun this early on a Saturday morning.

“So I’m sure you’ve all heard horror stories about what this lecture is about from your older classmates,” she began. “I want to start off by telling you all: relax. I’m not here to lecture you, even though this technically a lecture. Yes, the topic is sex … and Dark Magic … but I promise, there will be no slides of diseased genitalia or attempts to put a condom on a banana.”

She’d used that line or a variation of it ever since she started teaching this class. Every year, it got a few nervous giggles or outright guffaws, usually from the Muggle-born or half-blood girls. This year was no different.

Camilla smiled. “I thought so. Ladies, for those of you who didn’t get that joke – ask your Muggle-born or half-blood friends after class.”

As she’d suspected, the Slytherin girls looked either horrorstruck or shocked at that statement. Well, that wasn’t fair. Claudia was already glancing at Juliette and Rowan, the question obvious in her raised eyebrow. And Sybilla didn’t show much of anything, but that was Sybilla all over. She approached life like a poker game, where showing your hand meant losing everything. If Camilla was being honest with herself, she couldn’t wait to see what she and Leo made of each other once they’d been in class together a little longer.

“All of that being said, this lecture _is_ important, because, as much as I hate to have to tell you this – some of you might encounter these types of magic in your lives. Not all dark wizards – or witches – are like Tom Riddle. They’re not all megalomaniacs who are more interested in power than people. Some of them … well, some of them are just looking for power over one person.”

Camilla took a deep breath. “And I’m here to make sure that person isn’t one of you.”

* * *

“Wait, wait, okay, maybe with like the Imperius Curse, which you already said wasn’t the case, Professor,” Blake interjected before Lipskit had finished nodding at Blake to speak. “A lad _could_ get—you know?”

“Raped,” James interjected. “It’s not the Dark Lord, Blake, just _say_ it. Saying ‘you know’ just sounds like you’re primitively superstitious.”

“All right, a lad could get _raped_.” Blake paused to glare at James. “You can fight off a love potion. People do it all the time.”

“People who have reason to do it, who know what genuine love is, people who have a reason to fight the compulsion of a love potion, certainly,” Lipskit agreed, though in that way that it was clear that he was agreeing but not wholly by any stretch of the imagination.

“So—if I don’t know what ‘real love’ is, I’m just gonna get raped?” Blake demanded with a scoff. “I mean, if you really don’t want the girl, you’re gonna be able to fight it—and if the girl is someone you don’t care about either way—well—I mean lads want it, right?”

Ben’s hand shot up and Lipskit looked … amused, maybe, as he nodded toward him.

“That’s still rape,” Ben said. “Doesn’t matter if you’re a certified nymphomaniac and are literally ready for it all the time. You’re not capable of consenting.”

“Not _capable_ of consenting?” Most of the Slytherin boys guffawed at that point.

“I didn’t stutter,” Ben said quirking an eyebrow, and the laughter cut off.

“You’re actually serious? You really think that most lads wouldn’t take a shag even with a girl they weren’t that into when they could get one?” Blake stared at him.

“I’m saying that it doesn’t matter if they’d take a tumble, even take one with _that girl_ under different circumstances,” Ben said. “Your sex drive has nothing to do with whether sex under love potion is consensual or not. It’s not. It can’t be. You have had your ability to consent be compromised.”

“Okay, I was with you to even with that girl,” Cameron said _sotto voce_. “But you kinda lost the Snitch on that last turn. You want to sleep with the girl, but it’s still rape?”

“Unless you consented to the love potion dose, yes. It is.” Ben saw the skepticism all around him.

“Any shag with that girl, not just like kinky ones where she ties you up and does sh—stuff to you?” Ringo asked.

Ben scrubbed at his temples. “Most wizarding laws now abide by the same basic tenets as regards rape as Muggles do. That is: physical response does not equate consent, being under the influence of a substance that affects your ability to consent negates consent, and consent ends when one person says no—except in roleplaying circumstances—in which case the word ‘no’ is replaced with a safe word.”

“That is truly impressive, Mr. Moore,” Lipskit interjected before any of the boys could respond. “I’m pretty sure there are solicitors who couldn’t have given that list.”

“My cousin’s studying to be a lawyer.” Ben shrugged. “She talked about it a lot over the summer. She and Uncle Chester argued about it at the mandatory arguing hour.” Lipskit’s eyebrow shot up. “Oh, I suppose _most_ people call that ‘family dinner.’ My aunt insists we all eat dinner together.”

“Why don’t you eat dinner with your _own family_?” Blake scoffed.

“They are his family, Blake,” James once again interjected. “Let’s keep to topic,” he hissed when the red-haired boy glared at him.

“That doesn’t make sense, though,” another of the Slytherin boys – one Ben wasn’t too familiar with – spoke up. “Girls say no all the time, if no always means I’m supposed to put it away, I’m pretty sure nobody’d _ever_ shag.”

“Yeah—what girl ever actually says ‘c’mon let’s shag’?”

Ben looked sideways. “I guess I know different girls than you do.”

“A lot of time you’ve got to judge for yourself whether a girl is interested. I mean like …” The Slytherin trailed off and looked sidelong at Lipskit. “… Certain people, they dress a certain way because they’re trying to tell you that, yeah, they want it.”

“Uh, nope. Short skirts, low tops, don’t necessarily mean jack besides they like to dress like that,” Ben said, thinking of his cousin. Sure, Desi dressed in a way that these jagoffs probably would have read as “asking for it,” but she dressed that way because she liked dressing that way, if she wanted to fuck someone … she’d tell him (or her), in no uncertain terms, that that’s what she wanted.

“If you’re working around to sayin’ that some girls are asking to get raped, why don’t you just stop now and save yourself the trouble of getting verbally run over,” Rowan’s friend Quill said with a scowl. “Some of the countries with the highest number of rapes are primarily Islamic countries. You know what Islamic women wear? If a garment designed to keep a woman covered from the prying eyes of lustful males can’t keep a woman from getting raped—anything short of won’t either.” He seemed to be drawing a pattern on his sleeve; Ben thought he might have had a tattoo there. But the significance of the pattern and his drawing it was lost on Ben.

“Excellent point, Mr. Diaz. Gentlemen, while this is _fascinating,_ and I do mean that without sarcasm, I do have a lecture to get to. Perhaps—if you’d like to do anything but sit in this classroom all Saturday—you’d let me get back to it.”

* * *

“But you can fight a love potion, can’t you?” asked Lucinda. Rowan was glad that somebody did. Because what Professor Zanetti had said about love potions – about how they could force your body, your _mind_ to do things you didn’t want to do …

She tried not to gulp. She tried not to shiver.

She’d never thought of love potions like that before, as a weapon. The ones she knew of, from the WonderWitch line, seemed to be playful, fun. But from what Professor Zanetti was describing …

_It’s like a—a date rape drug._

She shifted uncomfortably – and when she looked out of the corner of her eye, she saw that a few of the other girls, the ones she knew were Muggle-borns or who had a Muggle parent like her, doing the same thing.

“Well …” Professor Zanetti started.

Rowan looked up. Her quill was already in her hand – habit, mainly – Professor Zanetti had already said that none of this was going to be on a test.

“I’m not sure that’s the best way to think about it, Lucinda,” Professor Zanetti continued. “Because if you start thinking that way – ‘you can fight off a love potion’ – then, when you’re presented with someone who says they were raped while under a love potion, you start to doubt their story. And that’s not right, and that’s not fair.”

She looked at the class. “I want to make one thing very clear, girls. A woman – or man – who is dosed with a love potion and is raped under those circumstances – what happened is not his or her fault. It is _solely_ the fault of the person who put that potion in the drink or in the chocolates or whatever. And another very important thing to keep in mind is that, while it’s possible to show resistance to a love potion, being able to resist it depends on so much more than any of the personal qualities of the person who was dosed. The quality of the ingredients – the skill of the potion-brewing – even the calculated strength of the love potion itself. Because – thankfully – most of the love potions that are commercially available are _not_ strong enough to completely override a person’s ability to consent.”

Rowan didn’t think she was imagining the way that relief rippled through the girls.

“But, Professor,” asked Belle Devereaux of all people, “if—if we can’t fight this—why are you telling us about love potions?”

“Now _that_ is an excellent question,” replied Professor Zanetti with a grin. “And the reason is simple.” She looked around at her audience. “You all need to look out for each other.”

Another ripple went through – this time of discomfort, embarrassed shifting. Rowan tried not to meet anyone’s eyes, tried to focus on her parchment.

“I know I spent a lot of time explaining that rape isn’t just a man-on-woman thing,” Professor Zanetti went on. “That—especially in the magical world—a woman can rape a man as easily as a man can rape a woman. That men can rape men and women can rape women. But fortunately or unfortunately, we’re living in a culture where men are expected to want sex all the time and women are expected to resist the idea. And in the culture we live in, far too many men think – or are conditioned to believe – that if a woman isn’t interested in sleeping with him, he’s completely justified in giving her a few … ‘nudges.’”

The inverted commas could not have been more obvious.

“And for magical folk? A love potion is a perfect ‘nudge.’” Professor Zanetti shrugged. “So you girls need to know the signs, even if you aren’t capable of recognizing them and acting on them if you’ve been dosed. Now tell me what those signs are,” Professor Zanetti went on.

Autumn’s hand shot into the air, and Rowan wasn’t surprised. Professor Zanetti nodded to her.

“Pale and sickly appearance, obsessive talking about the—er—’beloved,’ a quick temper when the ‘beloved’ is insulted, and … well … an inability to concentrate on anything but the ‘beloved,’” Autumn replied.

“Very good,” Professor Zanetti nodded. “So if you see one of your girlfriends – or a girl who isn’t a friend – or a boy who is or isn’t a friend – showing those signs, _do something_. Try to mix them an antidote; it’s not that hard a potion to mix if you know what you’re doing. Talk to them, try to distract them. Above all, _don’t_ let them go anywhere alone with the ‘beloved.’” Professor Zanetti took a deep breath. “At the worst? You’ll be sparing the person a great deal of embarrassment, and trust me, if you keep them from doing something that makes them look stupid, they will thank you.”

There were a couple of giggles at this. Professor Zanetti flashed a grin.

“But that being said, love potions were only one of the things that we were going to be talking about today,” Professor Zanetti went on. “Let’s move on to the next.”

* * *

“And for that reason, sex magic, for lack of a better term, is far more dangerous than even the strongest love potion.” Lipskit shuffled a piece of paper and looked around the room.

“So, wait, Professor: you’re telling us that you can use _sex_ to get someone to do anything you want, and you’re teaching us how to _prevent this_?” Antony asked into the silence Lipskit left open for questions.

“Mr. Quince, are you truly trying to miss the point—or are you just that stupid?” Professor Lipskit asked over the top of his reading glasses.

“It’s not an Unforgivable, Professor,” Antony pointed out, as if that made what he said any less distasteful.

“It also requires _love,_ Mr. Quince, something with a life philosophy such as that, you might never have the privilege of experiencing,” Lipskit replied.

“Professor! Are you actually saying that a student might not be loved?” James asked, sounding shocked.

“I’m sure his mother loves him, Mr. Fawley, as I’m sure yours does.” Lipskit’s tone was bland. James looked from Lipskit to Antony back to Lipskit, and though he folded his lips into a disapproving frown, he said nothing further. “Insulting quips about one’s parents aside, this is serious, Mr. Fawley, Mr. Quince.”

“But, Professor, you said it required love or something rather close to it—and despite the fact that we as teenagers supposedly fall in love three times a month—I kinda doubt most of us will really actually—you know—experience that.” Cameron’s face held a more than a little distaste, as if this was far too close to agreeing with Antony for his tastes.

“A fair point, Mr. de Falco. But do you think you might _ever_ experience love?”

“Well—yeah. I mean, I hope I will.” Cameron shrugged and rubbed at his neck.

“Then even if you don’t have any use for this now—might you not later?” Lipskit asked, his predatory blue eyes pinning Cameron in place.

“Right. Like we’re going to remember _Lipskit_ when we get older and we fall in love,” Blake muttered.

“Better when you fall in love than in the middle of a wank, Mr. Skinner.”

* * *

The moment Professor Zanetti finished explaining about dark sex magic – how a Dark wizard (or witch) could use the magical power unleased during sex to reach into his (or her) partner’s psyche and take control of his or her heart, manipulating emotions and turning the other person into an all-too-willing slave – Vivianne’s hand was in the air.

Professor Zanetti’s eyebrows went up, and she nodded. “Yes, Vivianne?”

“So how do you stop someone from doing this to you? And how do you break free?” Vivianne asked.

The professor’s eyebrows went up, but she smiled slightly. “Well … that’s an interesting question. As far as stopping someone from doing that to you … the most important thing to remember is that this kind of magic comes from _sex_ – consensual, loving sex, not rape – so if you have the least suspicion that someone might try this on you, don’t sleep with them.

“As for guarding against it … well, that first tactic is usually pretty foolproof. Secondly … there are methods to guard yourself against any kind of magical intrusion during sex. Complicated shield charms, that kind of thing. I can’t get into the details now – we don’t have the time – but if any of you want to know more about them, come and talk to me. I can give you a note to get into the Restricted Section and tell you what books to look for. And I can help you master them, if you really want to learn them.

“Now, as for breaking the spell … _that_ is very, very complex magic. It’s magic beyond anything we could test at NEWT level. For right now, and unless you go on to study advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts as part of your career, the best thing you can do if you suspect that someone else – or you yourself – has been affected by this kind of magic is to get that person to St. Mungo’s as quickly as you can. This is one case where I’d say it’s completely acceptable to Stun that person, Side-Along Apparate them, and deal with the consequences later. Anyone who attempts this kind of magic on someone else is not up to anything good.”

A slow, hesitant hand went up to Vivianne’s right. Professor Zanetti nodded. “Yes, Rowan?”

“W-w-what are the s-s-symptoms of this m-m-magic? Is it l-l-like a l-love p-p-potion?”

“Not … really,” Professor Zanetti settled for. “Love potions are a lot of things, but for the most part, they’re not subtle. This kind of magic can be very subtle. The control is over a person’s emotions, so if the practitioner is, well, skilled about it, you’re not going to see obvious symptoms like obsession and general mooning over the caster. But that’s not to say it’s impossible to recognize,” she went on, waving her hand. “The most important things to watch out for are reactions, emotions, and actions that are out of character. It’s not unlike the Imperius Curse in that respect.”

“S-s-so—” Rowan slapped her hand over her mouth, but Professor Zanetti nodded for her to continue. “Um—how w-w-would you t-t-tell the d-d-difference between that and the Imperius C-C-Curse?”

“As a layperson? You probably wouldn’t,” replied Professor Zanetti. “And as a layperson, you probably wouldn’t need to. The right thing to do in either case is to get the person to St. Mungo’s, quickly.”

“But—wait, Professor,” interrupted Sybilla, raising her hand as she spoke. Professor Zanetti raised an eyebrow at her. “If this is – as you yourself said – practically identical to the Imperius Curse from a layperson’s perspective, why isn’t it Unforgiveable?”

“Now that is an excellent question.” Professor Zanetti smiled. “There are a couple of reasons for that. One is philosophical. A person under the control of this type of magic technically has their free will intact, which isn’t the case with the Imperius Curse. Their actions are still under their control, even if their emotions aren’t. And I know,” she added as the class seemed to shift in their seats as one, “I _know_ that it seems like an academic difference at best. Believe me, I get it. Which brings me to the second reason.”

Professor Zanetti leaned back against the desk, smirking a little and crossing her arms over her chest. “How many of you know all three Unforgiveable Curses?”

Every hand in the room went up.

“How many of you know the incantations for all three Unforgiveable Curses?”

Every hand in the room stayed up.

“Excellent. You can put your hands down, ladies,” Professor Zanetti said. “Now. I’ve got a question for the Quidditch fans in the room. There were – I forget how many – hundreds of fouls committed during the first Quidditch World Cup. But the complete list has never been released to the public. Why?”

Claudia Churchill raised her hand with a grin. Professor Zanetti nodded to her. “Because players might get ideas.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Professor Zanetti replied. “And that’s the second reason why it isn’t Unforgiveable. Everybody knows what the three Unforgiveables are. Probably a sizeable proportion of the population could manage to cast one if they were aroused enough. This type of magic? It’s difficult, fairly obscure, and therefore rare. And the Ministry would very much like to keep it that way. And for once in my life …” Professor Zanetti smiled and shook her head. “I really can’t argue against that.”

* * *

Professor Lipskit had just finished informing them about what to do if they encountered someone who had had sex magic worked on them and Antony and Blake were starting up – _again_. Lipskit had never put up with this kind of thing in all the classes that Zach had taken with him. Given the serious nature of the discussion, Zach would have thought that Lipskit would have been stricter, not more relaxed. He might trade quip for quip, but he wasn’t making any attempt to truly _stop_ them.

“Of course, that wouldn’t work for everybody. McIntosh, for instance, is probably better off sticking with Imperius; it means he doesn’t have to worry about someone loving him.” Antony leaned back in his seat, legs fallen wide.

Most of the eyes in the class snapped toward the Slytherin side of the classroom.

“Yeah, not the best thing to bet on—his own father doesn’t, after all.” Blake snickered.

Quill shifted in his seat sitting up straighter, his posture and body language basically radiating challenge. But Blake and Antony weren’t even looking at Quill; they were looking across the room at the Gryffindors.

“Problem, Moore?”

“Just amazed at the level of detail and workmanship they’re putting into certain things these days.” Ben cracked a quarter of a smirk.

“Uh—huh?” Antony asked.

“They’re even including circumcision scars on dildos these days.” Ben stroked his chin with one finger in the place where Blake had a faint scar.

“Oh, Merlin,” Lipskit sighed. “Moore—did you have to go there?”

“Well, Professor, you gotta admit, it does sorta fit. Plastic, treated like a dirty-little-secret, and only really good for screwing someone.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s worse, Mr. Moore.”

“You can’t let him get away with saying that, Professor!”

“But I’m supposed to let you get away with a jibe at someone’s sexual orientation and generally being—,” Lipskit gestured with one hand.

“A dildo,” Kenny muttered to Ringo.

“Or a douche maybe,” Ringo said back.

“Gentlemen, let’s rein this in.” Lipskit looked at his notes. Antony gestured sharply at the Gryffindors. “Mr. Quince, let me ask you one question before we continue, if you insist upon forcing the issue and I insist that I punish Misters Moore, Vasile, and Garen, I will be forced to make note of the seventeen instances in which you were insulting to another student’s blood status, family, appearance, or sexual orientation. So, is the extra detention or docked house points worth the ones I’ll be docking from you? And before you answer that,” Lipskit continued when Antony started to open his mouth to answer. “Please note that number only includes the number of instances _you, personally,_ have accumulated – not the number your fellows have.”

“No, Professor,” Antony muttered.

“Now.” Lipskit scrubbed at his cheek and adjusted his reading glasses again. As Lipskit moved onto other types of magic involving sex, Zach would admit that his mind wandered a little bit. Even if Jon wasn’t bothered the slightest by what Antony and Blake had said …

A quick glance at his best friend showed nothing, but then again that wasn’t saying much; Jon usually didn’t let it show when someone had gotten under his skin. Zach sometimes worried about him.

So did Rowan. Maybe they were both just a little too sensitive, but sometimes Zach wondered if Jon really was as … what did Rowan call it – bulletproof? – as he came across.

But of course, someone like Antony or even Blake would go straight for any obvious chink in a person’s armor. He was learning a lot more than he would have thought of in this class – and it had nothing to do with the fact that you could actually use sex magic to increase fertility. More that there was a disturbing number of people who might not have necessarily _agreed_ with Antony’s assessments about the usefulness of Dark sex magic, but they didn’t seem nearly as disturbed by it as Zach was.

He had two younger sisters. In ten years, when the twins were sixteen and in this lecture, would the boys in their class be sitting there chortling and making jokes about teaching the magic rather than learning how to prevent it or to help someone who was under its effects?

In the here and now, his female friends had dated people in this room, would probably date other ones—and there were guys agreeing with this shit!

“… Because nothing says get-together like an orgy.” Antony pitched his voice to carry.

“And here I thought it was chicken an’ greens.”

* * *

“But before I let you ladies go,” Professor Zanetti said, “I do want to make one thing very clear.”

Rowan’s eyebrows went up, and she looked at her parchment.

Some habits died hard. Even when she told herself again and again that this wouldn’t be on a test, that she didn’t have to study it, even that having general awareness was enough and she truly didn’t want to pursue it further … she’d still covered two whole scrolls with notes. She’d written notes about love potions; about how there were probably twenty different ways to rape someone using magic, and that was just off the top of the class’s heads; about the darkest, heart-stealing form of sex magic; and even how you could use sex magic to fuel other nasty kinds of magic.

Her head swimming, she looked at Professor Zanetti. She wasn’t the only one. And she guessed she wasn’t the only thinking what she was thinking:

_What other kind of sex magic could there possibly_ be _?_

“Sex magic,” Professor Zanetti went on, “is far from being all bad – or even intrinsically dark.”

_… Huh?_

Rowan looked around the room to see more expressions of disbelief and shock than just her own.

“I know that might sound a bit mad, after everything I’ve spent nearly two hours lecturing on,” Professor Zanetti continued, “but that’s mostly the … limitations of the venue. Sex magic, when done properly, can be some of the—the lightest magic there is. To give just one example – when a couple is having trouble conceiving, there are methods of sex magic that can enhance their fertility and make it more likely that they’ll have a child and carry it to term. You can also weave magic into sex to act as a contraceptive – which, I don’t know about you lot, but I see that as _very_ handy.”

Autumn’s hand shot up, and Professor Zanetti nodded to her. “Why don’t—can we learn more about that? I mean—um—it _would_ be very handy … maybe not for me, um, personally, but …” Autumn’s complexion was too dark to show much of a flush, but her discomfort was obvious in the way she shifted in her seat and wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

Professor Zanetti sighed and shrugged. “Couple of reasons. One – contraceptive sex magic is tricky, and frankly, there are much easier ways to prevent pregnancy. I highly recommend you talk to Madam Pomfrey if you have any questions about that which you don’t think you can bring to your parents. As for why I’m not giving more information on fertility-enhancing magic …” She raised an eyebrow and gave them a lopsided smile. “Trust me when I say that _now is not the time_.”

A nervous giggle made the rounds through the classroom.

“But to continue on the subject of fertility magic – there is absolutely _fascinating_ research coming out of the Department of the Mysteries these days about ancient fertility rituals. They’re starting to determine that those old rituals weren’t all, well, togas and woad. What many researchers are trying to do now is to determine what parts of the old rituals are necessary for the magic and what parts are just ritual. And the practical applications are staggering – not just in the realm of agricultural production, either, but in terms of studying the overall impact of human magical activity on the natural world, the natural flow of magic through the world … some even think they can use this kind of magic to come up with a way for same-sex couples to have biological children of _both_ partners, though that kind of research is only just beginning.

“However,” Professor Zanetti took a deep breath and shook her head, “That’s really all I can say about this right now – else the Board of Governors would have my head and my job, in that order.”

There was a snort of surprised laughter that seemed to come from several corners of the classroom at once.

Professor Zanetti grinned. “And now that I’ve hit just about everything on my list … are there any more questions for me?”

* * *

After Leo waved the students off, he sighed and leaned against the podium, watching them leave. First out of their seats were the Slytherin boys, Antony at the spearhead of the group, Blake and James discussing something and definitely not bursting forth from the classroom like small children as they strolled out of the room. The Ravenclaws gathered their books and notes and followed close after, probably glad to be out of the uncomfortable (if informative) lecture and onto coursework or books that actually interested them. Next were the Hufflepuffs, too polite, too conscious of Leo still standing at the head of the classroom to burst forth from it like an avalanche. Even if they wanted to put themselves far away from what it said about humanity that they needed to have this lecture, they wouldn’t be out and out rude.

The Gryfindors were last, with joshing and rough-housing on the part of the boys who had a free afternoon ahead of them; the boys who had only gutting frogs and cleaning chamber pots ahead of them were the tag end, though they didn’t look nearly as miserable as he’d have imagined many of the boys would if they were faced with the same thing.

De Falco might have been the de facto leader for the group, but the boys took almost as many cues from Moore as they did from Cameron.

It never failed to raise Leo’s mental eyebrow the way Moore handled moral and ethical decisions. In contrast to someone like Quince, who wouldn’t admit to a single thing more than what you had evidence for, he would have thought that a student who understood the concept of consequences, one that knew more than just the textbook definition of culpability, would be a relief. A boy who owned up to running his headmaster’s pants up the flagstaff.

But as many wise people had noted … kids lied.

They told big lies, they told little ones, they told social ones and exaggerations. From brushing their teeth to not doing their homework to telling their girlfriends, “No, that dress doesn’t make your arse look fat,” kids lied.

Moore had two states: silent and culpable. If the situation called for a lie, he stayed silent. If the situation called for admitting to something, he admitted to it.

And that sense of admission that he had, it had showed itself today in class. Leo had more or less expected to hear things like what Antony said – there was always at least one boy in the group for the years he’d done this lecture (the first one done the year this group of students had been first-years) who said those sorts of things. There were always boys like McIntosh who didn’t _agree_ with what was being said. And those like Duncan who were out and out disgusted by the ideas. But there was always some boy who said it and others who might not have said it, but more or less agreed with it.

Moore, though … that was a bit of a different reaction. A man of few words and much sarcasm as some of his fellow Gryffindors put it. Even those who were disgusted by Antony or whomever the spokesperson for the sexist idiots’ views rarely voiced anything further than “shut it” or “sod off.” Even he couldn’t have told you what the wizarding laws on rape were off the top of his head. He couldn’t have immediately countered with those comments about having one’s consent tampered with.

He’d have to mention it to Zanetti and perhaps Flitwick. No point in bringing it up to Rove – he’d probably think that Leo was trying to get them out of punishment – though if McGonagall were still here … ah well, if wishes were fishes, as Lipskit’s bobeshi used to say, then beggars would eat, or be Catholic. No one who had known Keren Hirschfeld-Lipskit had any doubt where Leo got that sarcastic streak from. Leo smoothed his notes and looked over his shoulder at the blackboard, the eraser floating off the track and erasing the points written there, before snuffing the candles and heading for the door.

* * *

Camilla stood at the classroom door, holding her now-cold (and empty) coffee mug in one hand, watching the students leave.

All in all, she thought this year’s lecture had gone well. The girls hadn’t melted into puddles of embarrassment – well, for the most part – and there had been some good questions asked. Trust Vivianne Gorlois to cut right to the heart of the matter (ha-ha) on the matter of dark sex magic, and trust Sybilla Cromwell to point out the rank inconsistency of making an Imperius Curse Unforgiveable while this … wasn’t. Honestly, if Camilla wasn’t a teacher, if she hadn’t needed to be professional, she might have come right out and admitted that she thought this was _worse_ than the Imperius Curse. There was no need to betray someone’s love and trust to cast the Imperius Curse. All that one needed was a clear line of sight and the knowledge of how to cast the spell.

However, the day when moral judgements lined up exactly with legal judgements would probably be bad news for all concerned – the lawyers most of all.

Her attention perked up when Leo stumped to the door of his classroom. He stood there for a minute, leaning on his broadsword as he watched the kids make their way down the hall. Camilla watched too.

The Ravenclaw girls were still clumped together, except Rowan O’Blake, who was sandwiched as ever between Aqil Diaz and Jon McIntosh. The five Gryffindor troublemaker boys were headed in one direction – probably off to detention. Belle Devereaux and James Fawley were walking together – of course – and Camilla would bet her last Galleon that the only reason why they weren’t all over each other was because at least one of them was aware that there were teachers watching. Right behind them were Blake Skinner, close-but-not-too-close to Vivianne Gorlois. Sybilla Cromwell was on Vivianne’s other side, as always, and Frida Rowle was in the center of all the other Slytherin boys, saying something that made them all laugh.

There was only one group that had students from most of the houses – the group that had Zach Duncan, Juliette Gurriere, Shae Reed, Claudia Churchill, and Trevor Rivera in it. Juliette had said something that made Shae laugh and Zach run a hand down his face, probably to avoid laughing. Claudia was elbowing Juliette as they rounded the corner.

And just like that, she and Leo were alone in the hall.

“Well,” she said to Leo, as she’d said every year since they had started these lectures, “that could have gone worse.”

“It could have,” Leo agreed. He started walking – probably toward the staff room, as his office was in the opposite direction – and Camilla fell into step with him. “Although one of the kids surprised me.”

Camilla almost stopped in her tracks. “What?”

“You heard.” There was something – if she was talking to anyone _but_ Leo Lipskit, Camilla would have called it a twinkle – in his sharp blue eyes.

But this was Leo Lipskit, and his eyes simply did not twinkle.

“Maybe, but I’m not believing what I heard,” Camilla returned. “Who are you, and what have you done with Leo Lipskit? Do I need to shove a Polyjuice antidote down your throat?”

“Not yet,” Leo said lightly.

And that was all he said. Camilla rolled her eyes. _That_ was just like Leo – drop a potentially interesting fact, then wait for her to ask before he said anything else.

So Camilla swept her pride to the side and asked. “So … which kid was it?”

“Moore, if you’ll believe it,” replied Leo.

“Ben Moore, hmm?” Camilla mused. “That kid’s full of surprises this year, isn’t he?”

“So you say,” Leo answered. “I personally have only seen the one.”

Camilla chuckled and shook her head. “Whatever you say … now why don’t you tell me what surprising thing Moore did, or said, rather than just teasing me with the knowledge?”

“Tease? I never tease.”

Camilla smirked sidelong at him, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “We’ll see about that, Leo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave some comments or kudos if you're so inclined!


	12. Chapter 11: But When I Kissed the Cop

**Chapter 11: But When I Kissed the Cop**

“ _Professor!_ ” Trish yowled about the time Ben stepped out into the courtyard. “Professor!”

“What is it, Trish?” Professor Yaxley asked, not-quite-genuine sympathy in her voice, probably masking a bit of irritation as she meandered over to Trish and Frida.

“Those awful boys! They— _they_ —”

Ben could hardly refrain from rolling his eyes as he made his way toward the bench he usually would wait as the archaeology class convened in the courtyard. But his bench was blocked by a large box of some sort. As he edged around the group of giggling fourth and fifth-year Slytherin girls who were congregated around it, he saw that it was something like an old-fashioned puppet theater.

“Would you just _look_ at this, Professor?” Trish’s voice had never been music to Ben’s ears. Adding decibels certainly didn’t help it.

“What is it?” a Ravenclaw second-year – he guessed by the copy of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2_ she was holding – whispered to a friend.

“Somebody set up a puppet theater—and dressed, uh—something—up like some of the Slytherin girls.”

“They’re flobberworms,” one of the Slytherin girls sneered. “Quite possibly the most boring creature in existence.”

“So what’s she so upset about?” the first girl asked her friend, jerking her chin at Trish.

“She was one of the people a worm was dressed up as.”

“And you just _know_ it was those _awful_ Gryffindor boys!” Trish exclaimed a moment later. Ben probably wasn’t paranoid in thinking that most eyes shot toward him – including Professor Yaxley’s.

“Mr. Moore! Come here right this instant!” Professor Yaxley said in her most commanding voice, which ranked somewhere between his sugary-sweet kindergarten teacher and his old Sunday school instructor for scary on Ben’s list. “What is the meaning of this?!” Apparently Trish’s shrieking was contagious, because Yaxley’s voice just sounded like a huskier version of Trish’s at the moment.

“Beats me.” Ben looked over the box.

As the Ravenclaw had reported, there were several flobberworms laying twitching on the “stage” portion of the theater, all dressed in miniature Hogwarts uniforms, with tiny wigs on one end. One did – he supposed – superficially look like Trish, enough like her that the insult was clear – and of course, Trish-the-worm had a Frida-the-worm – but those were the only two who were truly identifiable. One could have been Sybilla – or maybe Cornelia – or maybe Vivianne? Whoever had dressed the worms had put just enough effort into the worms that Trish and Frida were identifiable, but beyond that, the rest of them could have been just about anyone.

“ _What?!_ ”Yaxley narrowed her eyes and glared at Ben.

“Beats. Me,” Ben repeated more slowly, enunciating each word carefully.

“Everyone in this courtyard knows you and your friends had something to do with this. Don’t play innocent with me. It won’t work.”

“Pity.” Ben sighed and refrained from rolling his eyes.

“What?”

“Professor, I am standing two feet from you and I assure you, my hearin’ is good. I can hear you just fine; you do not need to ring every word off the walls,” Ben told her. “And I said ‘pity,’ as in it is a pity that ‘playing innocent’ won’t work with you—because I _am_ innocent. You saw this thing for the first time before _I_ did.”

“You built a beach in Moaning Myrtle’s toilet.”

“Yep.”

“You ran Professor Rove’s unmentionables up the flagstaff,” Professor Yaxley continued.

“Uh-huh,” Ben agreed.

“You released pink heart-shaped lanterns and confetti spraying cupids at the Gryffindor versus Slytherin Quidditch match last Valentine’s Day.”

“Guilty.”

“You put ‘free hugs’ signs on every headmaster statue in the school.”

“Hey, even statues of dead guys need hugs sometimes.” Ben shrugged.

“You organized a dew rap concert involving ghosts and Nearly Headless Nick’s death date.”

“Uh, _Doo Wop_ , but yep, that was me too.” Ben nodded. “Not really seeing your point here, Professor.” Ben quirked an eyebrow at the Potions instructor.

“Don’t you _dare_ tell me that you had nothing to do with this!” She gestured sharply at the theater, probably intending to look dramatic, instead smacking her hand on the awning and scraping her hand open on the final “E”. She swore – right there in the courtyard, in front of everyone – as she went for her wand and summoned some bandages. She’d probably blame him for that, too.

“I don’t know what else I could tell you, Professor—as telling you I had nothing to do with this is the truth,” Ben said when she had finished bandaging her hand.

“Every other prank that happens here has something to do with you. And of course you would callously insult my girls,” Professor Yaxley sniffed.

“If I were going to insult the Slytherins, Professor, I would do so to their faces. I wouldn’t hide behind petty cruelty like this.” He jerked his head at the theater. “You might consider your track record with this before you blindly go accusing me.”

“Merlin’s knickers, what are you going on about now, Mr. Moore?” Professor Yaxley snarled right up in his face. Ben drew his brows together.

“Last year, when Blake Skinner got tripped before the grudge match and broke his arm, you accused me of doing it—and it turned out to be Jayde Hayes who was ticked at Blake for standing her up Hogsmeade weekend. And the time before that, when James Fawley and Troy Birch were pelted with Jell-O, you accused me even though every portrait in the hall told you it was Peeves. And the time before that, when you accused me of stealing Sybilla Cromwell’s potions project—it turned out that Midas Borgin dropped a book on it, cracking the vial, and Sybilla herself had taken it back to the potions classroom to transfer it to a different vial. How many times have you accused me of doing something to the Slytherins—and how many times have you been _right?_ ” _Not nearly as many as she’s been wrong,_ Ben thought but didn’t say. Sure, he and Cam pulled some pranks – but they were never cruel. That was a rule, and they followed it.

“So I’m just supposed to take your word for this, Moore?”

“Why not?” Ben asked. “When me and the boys ran Rove’s briefs up the flagpole, Professor Lipskit asked if we had anything to do with it—and what did I say?”

“What has—” the Potions Mistress asked, exasperated.

“What did I say, Professor?” he interrupted through clenched teeth.

“Yes, sir,” the students chorused as Yaxley reared back slightly.

“I don’t have a history of lying to you—or any other teacher here at Hogwarts, Professor Yaxley,” Ben reminded her. “So why can’t you take my word for it? What have I ever done to make it so that my word is so tainted that askin’ you to take my word for it is unacceptable?”

“Because you and your friends are always involved in these things!” Professor Yaxley accused.

“What is going on here?” Professor Rove asked, pushing his way through the students to where Ben and Yaxley stood. He looked over the theater, and his pudgy lips pulling back from his teeth in a snarl.

“Again, Moore?” Professor Rove asked. “I am at the very end of my beneficence with you.”

Ben cast his eyes skyward. _Holy Father in heaven, grant me patience, and please be quick about it,_ he thought. Or there was always his aunt’s favorite: _God grant me the serenity to accept things I cannot change, the courage to change what I can, and the wisdom to hide the bodies of the people who pissed me off._

“What. Are. You. _Doing_?” Rove demanded.

“Praying, sir. My aunt swears by a prayer or two in difficult times,” he said, his eyes still fixed on a cloud somewhere above Rove’s head.

“Oh—uh …” The headmaster trailed off, tugging uncomfortably at the neckline of a godawful set of lemon custard colored robes.

“I’m finished now, and I will tell you the same thing that I told Professor Yaxley. I had nothing to do with this, sir,” Ben repeated, trying to settle his shoulders and let calmness infuse him – punching the headmaster would not help anything – even as a mask of skepticism settled over Professor Rove’s bland features.

The headmaster looked over the flobberworms and theater, then onto Trish and Frida. Trish’s lip was quivering, and she looked like she was about to cry – an expression that morphed into a smirk shared with Frida as soon as the headmaster’s gaze moved back to the theater.

“I think—given your reputation in matters like this—that unless you can provide an …” He trailed off as if searching for a word.

“Alibi?” Professor Lipskit asked, appearing out of the crowd.

“Thank you, Leo.” Rove said it with the same general intonation as someone telling the person who rear ended them to fuck off. “Unless you can provide a reputable alibi, I believe that punishment will be in order.”

“What sort of punishment?” Professor Yaxley asked, licking at her lips.

“I believe that removing Mr. Moore from the archaeology class would be a good start. After all, the class is a privilege, and obviously detention is not enough to keep him out of trouble.”

“Were you involved in this, Moore?” Lipskit scrubbed at his cheek, eyes narrowed as he looked from the theater to the headmaster, to Yaxley, to Ben.

“No, sir.”

“T-H-E-A-T-R-E,” Lipskit mused.

“What?” Rove snarled, mopping at his forehead with a handkerchief that was the exact same shade of silk as his robes.

“It says ‘Puppet Theatre.’”

“I can see that. Your point, Leo?” Rove sighed.

“It’s spelled wrong,” Lipskit said, amused.

“It is not!”

“It is for an American.”

“What does that have to do with the price of frog guts in Peru, Leo?” Rove said, exasperated, throwing his arms wide – catching his hand on the same spot Yaxley had earlier. He didn’t swear, but Ben got the impression that if Lipskit hadn’t been standing there, he might not have caught himself.

“You’re accusing an American of building the theater. There are several hundred students in this school, all but one of whom would spell the word as T-H-E-A-T-R-E, and the one you’re accusing is the one who’d spell it E-R,” Lipskit pointed out.

“He has four accomplices, all of whom would spell it R-E,” Rove shot back.

“Not in this case.” Lipskit tugged at his beard. “This thing wasn’t here when I went down for my class at the lake. And de Falco, Vasile, and Garen all have class this period.”

“That leaves McChurch!” Rove countered.

“No, it doesn’t,” another voice added in. “Booker was helping me with setting up for dueling club,” Professor Flitwick said from somewhere in the crowd.

“But you were asking for an alibi.” Lipskit looked sidelong at Rove. “Have you got one?”

“A credible one!” Rove said when Ben moved to open his mouth. He had been in Gryffindor Tower for most of the afternoon – people had seen him – but he didn’t know if anyone would remember having seen him – and would that even be credible? He was steeling himself for losing one more chance to be close to his mom, even vicariously, when a shaky voice spoke up out of the crowd.

“E-ec-ec-excuse me, P-p-p-prof-fes-s-sor.”

“Yes, Miss—” Rove seemed to pause just for a second. “O’Blake?”

* * *

Rowan’s hands were clutching her books to keep them from shaking. It took every bit of willpower to not run away. And she knew – she _knew_ – that everyone in the courtyard was looking at her. The fourth and fifth-year Slytherin girls, everyone in the archaeology class and even the Ministry researchers who were helping to teach it, the entire Slytherin Quidditch team heading out to practice.

But she had to say something. Because this? This just wasn’t _fair_.

Rowan gulped and forced herself to take a deep breath. She knew that liars were supposed to have a hard time meeting people’s eyes, so she kept her gaze trained on Professor Rove’s face. Her knuckles were white around her books.

“B-B-B-Ben w-was w-w-w-with m-m-m-m-me,” Rowan stammered. “W-w-we w-were in th-th-th—the _l-l-library_ ,” she spat out. “S-s-studying.”

She took another deep breath and allowed herself – just for a second – to glance at Ben. His eyes were very wide, but other than that, he wasn’t showing any expression.

She looked again at Professor Rove. The headmaster’s jaw had fallen and he was blinking very rapidly. “Er. Well. I suppose, then, that—”

“You can’t possibly _believe_ her, M—Professor Rove!” Professor Yaxley shouted. “ _Her_? She’s just lying to cover for him! Or she wants to embarrass Frida and Trish even more!”

Rowan’s jaw fell. Even if Professor Yaxley was right about the lying—she honestly thought this was about Frida and Trish? She’d get _hexed_ if this was about Frida and Trish!

… She was probably going to get hexed anyway, come to think of it …

_But it doesn’t matter._ She wasn’t going to let Ben get kicked out of the class for something that he said he didn’t even do. And if he’d done it, he would admit it, wouldn’t he? He’d admitted to worse!

“What were you studying?” Professor Yaxley demanded. “And what was _he_ studying?”

“D-D-D-Defense Ag-g-g-gainst th-th-the D-D-Dark A-a-arts,” Rowan stammered, because that was true, on her part at least – and wouldn’t a large lie go down more easily if it was surrounded by small truths?” “And—u-um—I th-th-think B-B-Ben w-was s-s-s-studying Ar-r-rithmancy—”

“A likely story! Do you even take Arithmancy?” Professor Yaxley demanded of Ben.

Ben only blinked once before saying, “Yes, ma’am.”

Professor Yaxley’s jaw fell, and she turned to Rowan again. “A—a lucky guess, that’s all that was! But why were you studying together if you weren’t even studying the same thing? Hmm? Tell me that!”

“ _Really_ , Rosie,” Professor Rove murmured.

“No, Professor Rove! I won’t have it! We all know that Miss O’Blake has—a—a grudge against my girls. And I won’t have it said—”

“A _grudge_ against your girls?” Professor Flitwick snapped. He pushed his way to the front of the crowd. Even Rowan and the rest of the Ravenclaws stepped back when they caught sight of the look on his face. “Now that is enough, Rosie! Rowan has no disciplinary record whatsoever, she has never caused a problem in class or outside of it—and if anyone has a grudge against anyone, _you_ have one against Ben – and Rowan! The only reason you’re accusing Ben of doing this is his reputation for pranks, and the only reason you’re accusing Rowan of anything is because of her blood status!”

Rowan wanted to wince, but she didn’t dare.

Professor Yaxley’s eyes went wide. She glanced at Professor Flitwick, then Professor Rove, then the crowd of students. She took a deep breath—

Professor Lipskit coughed. It was a perfectly normal cough, except for the way that all sound in the courtyard ceased when he did so. “Professor Rove – you mentioned earlier that Mr. Moore needed a credible alibi before you’d let him off the hook. Does the word of Miss O’Blake – who, as Professor Flitwick reminded us, has no disciplinary record and no history of causing trouble – count as a credible alibi?”

Professor Rove looked at Rowan, whose books were starting to tremble, and then at Professor Yaxley and Professor Flitwick. “Yes. Of course. As you said, she’s never been in any trouble.”

Professor Flitwick had stood up for her, Professor Rove had believed her, _Professor Lipskit_ had stood up for her—

She was going to hell for this, wasn’t she?

“Excellent. Now that we’ve got that cleared up, I’ll be borrowing Mr. Moore and Miss O’Blake, if you don’t mind. Some of us have a little thing known as _class_ to attend to,” Professor Lipskit replied. He turned to leave, but before he could walk away, he paused. “Miss O’Blake?”

Rowan looked up.

“I know being—berated—by a teacher can be intimidating, but you might want to try breathing. I have it on good authority that it’s necessary for life.”

Rowan’s breath came out of her in a sudden rush after that. When had she started holding her breath? “Th-thanks.”

Professor Lipskit nodded once and swept off. Rowan, still hugging her books to herself, hurried after him. Ben followed at a slightly slower pace, but he soon fell into step with Rowan.

He didn’t say anything as they joined the group. Neither did Rowan. But Rowan could feel people staring—probably mostly at Ben. Zach, however, was definitely looking at her with a raised eyebrow. And so was Vivianne Gorlois.

Rowan pretended that the top of her shoes were the most fascinating things she had ever seen, and she kept pretending as the class gathered, lined up, and was escorted out of the courtyard and toward the Forbidden Forest.

She didn’t say anything – she didn’t dare – as they entered the Forest and continued the journey through the trees. She took deep breaths. Fall was definitely in the air. The equinox was today, and gold was already beginning to touch the tips of the leaves, while the wind had a definite chill to it. She concentrated on breathing that in and on not falling on anything.

She succeeded more at the first than the second. She tripped – and Ben caught her elbow, steadying her. Rowan flushed. “Th-th-thanks,” she stammered.

“Thank _you_ ,” he replied, and Rowan didn’t need to be told for what.

Her face grew hotter, and she looked again at her feet and the forest floor. “It—I—” She glanced around, but the closest adult was Mr. Bellerose, who would hardly care about this, even if he could hear what she was saying. “I—I know w-w-what it’s l-like t-to h-have Professor Y-Y-Yaxley p-picking on you for n-no g-g-good reason.”

“Still. You didn’t have to do that.” And something in his tone told Rowan that he was wondering – very much – why she had.

And – when she wasn’t concentrating on how grossly unfair it all had been – maybe there was a part of Rowan that was wondering, too.

But she didn’t voice that thought. Instead, all she did was look up at him, smile, and shrug.

“W-what are f-f-friends for?” 

* * *

 

If Zach hadn’t needed to watch where he was going – and if Ben and Rowan hadn’t been behind him and not in front of him – he probably still would have been staring at his friend. He’d seen Rowan in the library earlier, but he hadn’t seen Ben. So there was a good chance that Professor Yaxley was right and she wasn’t telling the truth – but hell if he was going to call her on it. She had to have _some_ reason why she was coming to the Gryffindor’s defense. Even if he had no idea what it was or even a guess as to what had prompted it.

Maybe it was just the unfairness of it all. Merlin knew that Professor Yaxley blamed Rowan for everything she could, logical or not. And Rowan would think it was terribly unfair that she was doing it to someone else. Especially with all the rumors that flew after … after …

He looked briefly over his shoulder at Rowan, who was still hugging her books tightly to her chest and looking rather flushed, with stress crinkles between her brows and around her eyes, but she was laughing. Ben was saying something in a low voice, obviously feeding the laughter.

To say that _Rowan_ had a grudge against Frida and Trish? Well, she probably did, but even Zach’s mum understood why she did. And his mother was the most forgiving person he’d met. She had even forgiven Zach’s dad.

He shook his head.

“Puzzled as the rest of us?” Spencer asked in a low tone. Zach nodded. “You can’t blame her. If anyone knows what it’s like to be called out by her—it’s your girl.”

“Yeah. I know.” But they didn’t have much time to talk about it, because the ruins were right in front of them and they were being funneled off toward their various assignments.

“Sybilla, have you seen my juice?” Vivianne asked, pawing through her bag. “I know my bag got kicked; my inkpot was clear under the bench.”

“Mine as well. If Troy really needs to know why the team is completely unwilling to get rid of Claudia in favor of him, I’d say he should just watch his feet. But if he had a chance of doing that, he might have a chance of being Seeker.” Sybilla shook her head. “It’s in here. One of the boys probably stuffed it in my bag by mistake when they were ‘helping’ me get my stuff back, like an _Accio_ wouldn’t have been quicker.”

“Oh, come now, you know I’m far from wanting to be a damsel in distress—but look at it as chivalry not being completely dead.” Vivianne shook her head as she cracked the bottle and took a sip.

“If I wanted chivalry, it wouldn’t be from—Vivianne?” Sybilla asked sharply.

“I—I’m …” She took several small sips of juice, taking slow, deep breaths. It wasn’t hard to see why Sybilla was concerned. Vivianne was deathly pale, and her hands were shaking.

“Spencer—go get Professor Kilduff,” Zach said worriedly. The professor was still out in the courtyard along with Mr. Langley; only Mr. Bellerose was in the foyer with them. Spencer looked from Zach to Vivianne and back to Zach before loping off toward the courtyard.

“I’ll be fine, really, Sybilla; you’re fussing like my mother.”

“What is that charming statement? Even a broken clock is right twice a day. Sit, Vivianne.” Sybilla ordered, directing her over to one of the marble benches.

“Ugh,” she scoffed. “I just need—” She took another sip of juice. Sybilla’s brows drew in suspiciously, and she grabbed the bottle from Vivianne’s hand. Vivianne glared at her, but Sybilla simply conjured a cup, filled it with water with an ease that anyone short of Flitwick probably would have envied, and thrust the water into her hands.

“Sip that,” Sybilla ordered, though not completely without sympathy.

“Sybilla.”

“You were feeling fine until you started drinking this.” Sybilla sniffed the mouth of the juice bottle before recapping it.

“You’re being—”

“Paranoid? It’s not paranoia if they are out to get you,” Sybilla said.

Vivianne might have argued it more with her, but it was at that moment that she mewled and doubled over. Mr. Bellerose rushed over to where she stood – Zach didn’t want to crowd her – but Sybilla seemed to have everything in hand.

He couldn’t imagine a situation where she wouldn’t have had everything in hand, honestly.

* * *

_Oh, Merlin, what the HELL?_

Vivianne was going to be sick. She didn’t merely _think_ she was going to be sick. She bloody well knew that the stabbing stomach pains and the overwhelming nausea could only end one way.

“Mademoiselle?” asked Monsieur Bellerose in alarm. His voice cut through the pain and the nausea with the swiftness and sureness of a sword.

But she backed away nonetheless. She was _not_ going to vomit all over Monsieur Bellerose’s shirt or shoes or—

“Mademoiselle Cromwell—please step back, I do not think we should—”

Something—someone—a hand? Whatever it was, it rested on her shoulder and Vivianne’s skin screamed in protest. She threw off the offending whatever-it-was.

“Mademoiselle Gorlois!” Monsieur Bellerose protested. “It will be all right. I can help—”

The hand came back. Vivianne retched. She threw her hands over her mouth, trying, _trying_ —

She failed.

And unfortunately for him, Monsieur Bellerose was directly in the line of fire.

“ _Mon Dieu_!” he shouted, stumbling back. “Mademoiselle Gorlois—”

“Vivianne—” That was Sybilla—funny how she could hear her better now—and she was waving her conjured cup—

No, wait, now it was a bowl—

“Hold this!” she ordered, and shoved it under Vivianne’s mouth just in time.

Vivianne held the bowl and Sybilla held her hair back as Vivianne’s stomach continued its rebellion.

When it was over—at least, Vivianne _thought_ it was over, at least for now—Vivianne barely had a moment to catch her breath before she heard a gasp from the doorway. “Vivianne! Oh, my goodness, what happened?”

She looked up.

Professor Kilduff was hurrying inside—Mr. Langley was behind her, his jaw fallen—Spencer too—

They were all staring at her, and Vivianne could only imagine what a fright she must look. Paler than normal, holding the bowl, glassy eyes – and she hadn’t looked at the damage on her robes and shoes yet; she didn’t want to _know_ what the damage was on her robes and shoes.

Even Zachary was staring at her. And so was Monsieur Bellerose.

Another sharp pain shot up from her stomach, and Vivianne hissed.

“This—this—” started Mr. Langley.

“Not a word!” Professor Kilduff— _snapped_? Professor Kilduff could snap? “Oh, Vivianne, you poor thing—why didn’t you tell us you weren’t feeling well? Here, let’s get you back to the castle. Can you walk?”

Vivianne nodded, but she still clutched the bowl. Professor Kilduff put an arm around her shoulder and clucked sympathetically.

“I’ll come too,” Sybilla said. “Professor—I think someone tampered with Vivianne’s drink. She didn’t start looking sick until she started drinking.”

_But I’ve had my juice with me all day, and I didn’t start feeling sick until now …_

Vivianne didn’t say that. Speaking seemed to be playing with fire.

“Besides,” Sybilla added, “someone’s going to need to hold Vivianne’s hair back if worse comes to worst.”

Vivianne snorted in spite of herself.

“… All right,” Professor Kilduff replied. “Vivianne, Sybilla, with me. Mr. Langley, Mr. Bellerose, please keep an eye on Zach and Spencer for me. Now come on, Vivianne,” Professor Kilduff concluded, “let’s get you back to the castle.”

Vivianne didn’t argue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave us a comment or some kudos if you're so inclined!


	13. Chapter 12: You Can't Hurry Love

**Chapter 12: You Can’t Hurry Love  
**

_We made a promise we swore we’d always remember_  
No retreat, baby, no surrender  
Like soldiers in the winter’s night with a vow to defend  
No retreat, baby, no surrender

There was something vaguely haunting about those lyrics – like he had heard them somewhere he just couldn’t quite recall. He’d always felt that way about that song. And sometimes when he was dozing, like he was now, floating just below consciousness, he’d hear the lyrics in his head. Sometimes he heard a man’s voice and a woman’s. The man’s with a thick Southern accent – the woman’s crisp, upper-class British. He was too close to the surface to hear the voices now; all he heard with the song was the random sounds of the dorm.

Ringo and Kenny joking about something – Booker practicing a spell – Chance hopping up onto the bed and pawing at the bedspread to get it into just the right configuration by his shoulder to lie down and purr. Beyond that, the common room buzzing with the day’s gossip. Today it was a tossup between Ben getting called out by Yaxley and Rowan O’Blake’s daring rescue and Vivianne Gorlois throwing up all over, plus the rumor that it had been a tampered-with drink that was at the heart of it.

He had no idea if the latter was true, beyond knowing that Vivianne had been shuffled off to the infirmary looking very sick with Sybilla and Professor Kilduff. But he knew about the former well enough. He certainly hadn’t been expecting Rowan to come to his defense. He hadn’t expected that Lipskit would choose to believe her.

“Oh my!” Selena exclaimed, prodding Ben out of his doze.

“You could bounce a galleon off those abs,” Lucinda’s voice cut in a moment later.

“Tell you what, you actually get Ben to agree to it—and get the coin to bounce—and I’ll _give_ you the galleon,” Shae snickered.

“Well,” Ben said folded his hands behind his head, “I wasn’t expectin’ company or nothin’.” Chance burrowed her tiny face into Ben’s neck, trying to rattle his entire body with purring even though she was no bigger than a ball of fluff and weighed approximately the same as two feathers and a nickel.

“We’re not complaining—Merlin, we’re not complaining, Ben,” Shae said, sounding almost reverent.

“Shae! What would Krem say?” Selena murmured.

“Believe me, he understands appreciating for the sake of appreciation.” Shae snorted. “Do you have that kind of accord with Cameron—or Beau?”

“Speaking of Cameron—where is he? We’re supposed to be working on our project for Herbology,” Selena asked.

“Uh—” Kenny offered intelligently.

“No clue,” Ringo seconded.

“I haven’t seen him since dinner,” Booker said with a shrug.

“He had to go get a note from Professor Sprout to get Professor Yaxley to agree to let Filch get in the potions supply closet so he could get something he needed for the project.”

“Oh, that ought to be fun. Yaxley got embarrassed in front of the entire school by Ben and Lipskit—then one of her precious Slytherins—and even more precious Gorloises—ended up getting sick. Yaxley’s going to grouchier than a troll on a three-day bender,” Shae sighed. “Well, shove over then, Booker.”

“What?”

“You’ve got plenty of room on your bed—Ben’s occupying his—Kenny and Ringo are occupying Ringo’s—and Kenny’s is clear on the other side of the room.” Shae said dropping Booker’s books into his lap and plunking herself down on the foot of his bed.

“What about _Cameron’s_ bed? As you’re waiting for _Cameron_.”

“I’d be too tempted to try that galleon bouncing thing Lucinda brought up.”

Booker sighed as the girls laughed.

“So we’re all curious, Benjamin,” Lucinda said after she was finished laughing. “Were you really with Rowan in the library?”

“What do you think?” Ben cracked one eye and looked at her.

“Thought so. If we all guessed it was no—why did Lipskit believe her?”

“I doubt he did,” Ben said.

“But … he backed her up to Rove.”

“That doesn’t mean he believed her—just that he didn’t believe Yaxley. And Rove’s still sore about his underpants,” Ben said, closing his eyes once again.

“Merlin—what is _this_?” Cameron asked. “Selena, were you ogling my best friend? I am so hurt. You never ogle me like that.”

“Cam, I’ve seen you with your shirt off—it doesn’t look like that.”

“And you—why didn’t you put a shirt on?”

“I couldn’t disturb the cat.” Ben smirked.

“Who is more important? Your best friend? Or your cat?”

“The cat.” Ben wasn’t the only one who said it.

Cameron just sighed.

A few moments later, the girls and Cameron settled into talking about their project and the other boys went back to their respective activities, which left Ben more or less alone with his thoughts. He couldn’t help but be grateful for Rowan offering him an alibi, but considering she had still been a bit shaky on their walk back to school from class, what had granted her the courage to do so?

Short of saving her life – which, _ha_ , was really likely to happen – he’d probably never be able to repay her.

That moment when she’d spoken up, hands clutched white on her books, voice breaking into a billion pieces, when Yaxley’s eyes had touched on her and narrowed …

As he floated back under the veil, he thought he heard something in his head. _“No regrets? You could have done so much more.”_

_“Never. Because whatever more I would have done, it wouldn’t have meant anything without you. No retreat, darlin’, no surrender.”_

* * *

“Seriously, Rowan, what were you thinking?” asked Quill, not for the first time.

The Ravenclaw common room had more than its fair share of nooks and crannies – small corners, equipped with soundproofing spells and perfect for studying, group projects, or late-night bull sessions. Rowan, Jon, and Quill were in one of them. Rowan’s intention had been to do some reading to get a better sense of how not to get killed when helping Candice with her experiments.

She doubted that would happen.

Quill was staring at her, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest and a shocked expression. Jon sat backwards on a chair, leaning his chin on his hand. “He’s got a point,” he said, nodding to Quill. “This isn’t like you, Rowan.”

“I …” Rowan looked at the book, felt the flush rising up, and tried to think of something to say. Something that would make sense, not only to them but to her. “It—you _kn-now_ it wasn’t fair. We s-saw how B-Ben owned up w-when he and his f-friends did the trick with P-Professor Rove’s p-pants—if he’d own up to _th-that_ …”

“Yeah, but—but that’s no reason for you to taunt the bloody dragon with a—a holy hand grenade!” Quill protested.

“A _what_?” asked Jon.

“The Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch,” Quill said. “Look—it’s from a movie—and it doesn’t matter—”

“What movie?”

“ _Jon_.”

“What? You can’t—you can’t toss a holy hand grenade into a conversation like a—a hand grenade and then just walk away!”

“Jon,” Rowan replied. “When we’re home over the Christmas h-holiday, c-come to London and I’ll sh-show you the movie. It’s—um—an interesting one.”

“That’s her polite way of saying it’s completely mad,” Quill translated. “But hysterical. You’ll like it.”

Jon grinned and rubbed his hands together.

And with a blink, he was serious again. “All that being said, Quill still has a point, honey-bear.”

Rowan sighed, scratched her head, and thought.

“W-who else was g-going to help?” she asked. “W-we—we all know the other G-Gryffindors only t-tolerate Cameron and Ben and their friends so m-much. The S-Slytherins certainly weren’t g-going to s-say anything. The Hufflepuffs p-probably wouldn’t have l-lied to help B-Ben. And n-neither would anyone from our h-house.

“And … he’s n-nice,” Rowan shrugged. “He—I m-mean—I’m s-stuck in a g-group with Beau and Lucinda, all over each other. Who knows if they would g-get someone as n-nice as B-Ben in the group with me? Or anyone at all?” Rowan shuddered. “If P-Professor Yaxley had h-her way, they’d get another S-Slytherin in there and I’d b-be stuck working with him—or her—all r-ruddy year.”

“So you’re saying … better the devil you know than the devil you don’t,” Quill mused.

Rowan nodded.

Jon, however, had his eyes narrowed at her and a thoughtful frown.

Rowan bit her lip and glanced back at the book. She saw the letters but didn’t read them.

She didn’t know what they – Jon – were looking for. She didn’t see what else was required. She recognized that the situation was unfair. And she took a gamble, a … well … less-than-calculated risk, that speaking up now and pulling Ben’s fat from the fire was probably less likely to bite her in the arse in the long term than keeping her mouth shut. It was simple logic, really. That was all it was.

That was all it needed to be.

* * *

“It was _just_ a bit of … illness,” Tearose was saying to Morgause. “There’s really _nothing_ to worry about. Madam Pomfrey has everything completely under control. Vivianne is looking a bit peaky, but other than that, she’s just fine.”

Under her breath, so her niece wouldn’t hear her, Igraine Vivianne Gorlois snorted.

_A likely story_ , she thought as she followed daughter and niece through the halls of Hogwarts, once so familiar, now … less so. The Battle of Hogwarts ten years ago had left its mark. Maybe the students didn’t notice – maybe Tearose was fully inured to the sight by now – but Igraine saw it.

Scores and scars in the stonework. Portraits moved around, perhaps to compensate for their fellows who had been utterly destroyed. Every so often, a small bronze plaque.

Igraine deliberately chose not to read the plaques. She did not need the dead of a decade ago to intrude on her worries about the present.

Yes … worries. If the school matron was calling Vivianne’s mother (and her grandmother, but only because neither mother nor grandmother would have considered the idea of her staying behind) in because of her … “illness,” then there was reason to worry. Hogwarts was self-sufficient, proud of its independence. Its matron was often renowned as one of the best Healers in Britain, not least because she had even less idea of what she might be facing from day to day than the ones at St. Mungo’s did. Between Quidditch injuries, accidental spell misfires, Potions accidents, and deliberate hexings, any school matron would have her hands more than full. She was expected to handle it all without breaking a sweat.

If she was calling a student’s parents in, this was serious.

Igraine kept her mind focused on that as Tearose led the pair of them to the hospital wing doors. These, at least, looked no different than they had in Igraine’s own school days.

She focused on that as Tearose opened the door and ushered them inside.

While Tearose had brought them through the school, Igraine had been content to hang back, to let her daughter’s best friend and cousin try to reassure her, to let her daughter pretend to be the one here by right and Igraine merely here for moral support. But now there was work to be done. Igraine stepped forward into the hospital wing, her mismatched eyes sweeping over the beds, looking for Vivianne.

She didn’t see her. But she did see moveable privacy panels erected near one of the beds by the back. _That_ must have been where Vivianne was. Igraine stepped toward it—

“Wait, Aunt Igraine,” said Tearose. “I think Poppy wants a word—”

“I do,” said another voice.

Igraine turned. Madam Pomfrey – or so Igraine assumed she was, given the matron’s uniform she was wearing – had emerged from a small room to the right. The woman carried herself with a strict and straight bearing, but there was a kindly look in her eyes.

She hurried toward the three women. “Tearose—are these the Gorloises?”

“Yes,” Igraine answered for the three of them. She stepped forward. “I am Igraine Vivianne – this is my daughter Morgause Dindrane – and of course you know Tearose.”

Madam Pomfrey blinked. “Er … yes,” she finally said. “I need to speak with Vivianne’s mother – or her father, or her legal guardian.”

“Oh, that would be me!” replied Morgause. She stepped forward, twirling a lock of glossy black hair around her finger. “I know it’s hard to believe, Madam Pomfrey – but she is my girl.” Then, biting her lip, “She … she is all right, isn’t she?”

Madam Pomfrey looked from Morgause to Igraine and back to Morgause. “I think we’d best have this discussion in my office. Ms. Gorlois—”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, call me Josie! It wasn’t that long ago you did,” Morgause replied. “Ms. Gorlois is my mother.”

“Indeed,” Igraine murmured. She allowed herself one – just one – glance at the privacy panels. “Morgause, if Madam Pomfrey wishes to speak with us in her office, I suggest we do so – quickly.”

“Oh—oh, all right, Mother,” Morgause murmured. Her hand went up and down the strap of her handbag, and she bit her lower lip. In that moment, she could have been Vivianne’s sister – barely even older – not her mother.

Long practice was all that kept Igraine from rolling her eyes.

Madam Pomfrey stepped to the side and ushered them all toward the small room to the right. Igraine led the way; Morgause followed.

“Tearose,” Igraine said, before the latter could follow them in, “thank you for directing us here. Perhaps you could check on Vivianne while we discuss the matter with Madam Pomfrey?”

Tearose’s jaw fell. She stared at Morgause. Morgause frowned, glanced at her mother, and slowly nodded.

“Yes—yes, of course, Aunt Igraine,” murmured Tearose, taking a few steps back. Hopefully she actually would check on Vivianne, though Igraine wouldn’t be holding her breath.

Madam Pomfrey, casting a curious glance at Igraine, brought up the rear and closed the door behind her.

The office was small, crowded with books and bookshelves, herbs, jars, and Merlin only knew what else. But everything was scrupulously neat and carefully placed.

There was a desk and three chairs in the usual configuration. Madam Pomfrey gestured to the two chairs on the door side of the desk. “Please—have a seat.”

The three of them sat. Igraine folded her hands neatly in her lap and kept her back ramrod straight. Morgause put her handbag on her lap and kept running her hands along the scraps.

“You’ll forgive me for wanting to bring you in here before seeing Vivianne,” Madam Pomfrey began. “But I found something—rather disconcerting—and I wanted to discuss it with you before … well, before it gets all around the school.”

“Please, go on,” Igraine replied, before Morgause had a chance to say anything.

Madam Pomfrey’s eyes narrowed, and she glanced at Morgause.

“What happened?” asked Igraine.

Madam Pomfrey frowned. She sat back, deliberately addressing herself to the pair of them rather than one or the other. “What happened is … unusual. Have you ever heard of an allergic reaction?”

“A what?” asked Morgause, and Igraine was forced to shake her head.

Madam Pomfrey nodded. “It’s a term borrowed from Muggle science. It describes an overreaction of the body to a foreign stimulus. Our bodies are finely tuned to protect us against disease and illness. But sometimes this protective instinct gets out of hand, and the body reacts to things that aren’t illnesses or even harmful at all. It’s simple enough to cure for most Healers, which is why most wizarding folk haven’t much experience with them.”

“So—so you think Vivianne has an allergy?” Morgause asked. “Why don’t you cure her, then?”

“Because it’s a bit more complicated than that,” Madam Pomfrey replied. “Her friend Sybilla – Sybilla Cromwell – came in when Vivianne was brought in. She had a bottle of juice that she claimed was Vivianne’s. She insisted that the juice had been tampered with, since Vivianne did not become sick until she drank from it.”

Igraine’s eyebrows slowly went up. “And …?”

“Well, I tested the juice, of course. And what I found was … interesting. The juice had been tampered with.”

“Then why are you saying—” Morgause started, but Igraine put her hand on her daughter’s and shook her head.

“But …” Madam Pomfrey frowned. “What was in the juice was … Amortentia.”

Igraine’s eyes went wide. _Someone tried to slip Vivianne a love potion?_

And Morgause laughed.

“Amortentia!” she chuckled. “Is that all it is? Oh, Madam Pomfrey, that’s nothing to worry about! Some boy is probably too shy to tell Vivianne how he feels, that’s all. Really, that’s hardly—”

“Morgause, enough!” Igraine snapped.

Morgause stopped laughing.

“Why you would even …” Igraine stopped, shook her head, and turned to the school matron. “What were Vivianne’s symptoms? Exactly?”

“Nausea and vomiting,” Madam Pomfrey replied. “Which is why I assumed … Ms. Gorlois, do you know why your granddaughter had this reaction?”

Had she been that obvious?

Igraine’s expression was carefully blank, even surprised – but behind it, she was thinking.

What would it cost to be honest? What would it cost to stay silent?

She wondered, casting her mind on the current generation of young Gorlois women. Niniane Avalon had graduated two years before, Lyonesse Dindrane the year before that. But little Niniane Morgause had just started Hogwarts this year, and Guinevere Lynette, Lyonesse Dindrane’s sister was in her fourth year.

And all of that was saying nothing about the girls – and even the young men – who could claim a slantwise connection to the Gorloises. Isolde Macnair. Guinevere and Lyonesse’s brother Jacob. Tearose’s daughter, when she got old enough to go to Hogwarts. And …

Igraine elected not to think of her other granddaughter.

That was three girls, including Vivianne, in the school right now. And there would be others.

Perhaps the harm of not letting Madam Pomfrey know outweighed the importance of keeping family secrets.

So Igraine nodded. “Nausea and vomiting are typical reactions of any Gorlois woman who is … poisoned with a love potion. It is one of the traditional protections of the Gorlois clan.

“And,” she glared at Morgause, “I cannot understand why you think this is a laughing matter. You know this!”

“What? What are you talking about, Mother? I’ve never even heard of this!” And Morgause did look bewildered. “I mean, I’ve taken Amortentia before, and I—oh. Maybe it wasn’t the oysters …”

“You what?” Igraine asked, and even Madam Pomfrey looked surprised.

“Well …” Morgause glanced from Madam Pomfrey to Igraine and back again. “I mean, we’re all grown women here, aren’t we? We all know what happens when you and your man take Amortentia for each other!”

Madam Pomfrey was starting to blush, but Igraine continued to fix her daughter with a steely gaze. “Assume, for the sake of argument, that not all of us do. What, pray tell, happens when you and your—significant other _deliberately_ dose yourself with this potion?”

“The sex is mind-blowing!” Morgause replied matter-of-factly. “Or so I’ve heard. The one time I tried it, with … who _did_ I try it with … oh, yes, it was Julius! Dear Julius,” she sighed. “Well, we thought we’d—make a night of it—oysters, wine, chocolates, the whole deal … only, well, I _thought_ the oysters were bad, since I spent the whole night kneeling in front of the porcelain god, if you know what I mean.”

A lesser woman would have buried her face in her hands and groaned. Igraine only blinked at her daughter. “You deliberately took a potion you knew would make you ill – for the sake of, and I quote, ‘ _mind-blowing sex_.’”

“I didn’t know it would make me ill!” Morgause protested. “I mean, I wouldn’t have taken that if I’d have known! What would be the point?”

Well, that was something to be thankful for. “I told you,” Igraine replied. “When you were fourteen. I told you the story of Dindrane Nimue. Don’t you remember?”

“Dindrane Nimue, Dindrane Nimue …” Morgause leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “She … er …”

“A witch from the house of Gaunt was seduced by a young Muggle-born wizard using a love potion,” Igraine replied, voice dangerously clipped. “They eloped to Gretna Green and were married. While her father and brother eventually caught up with them, it was too late to save the family fortune – or their daughter and sister’s reputation. Dindrane Nimue was horrified, and she realized that our clan – since we concentrate so much property in female hands – was vulnerable to this sort of abuse. So she devised an … anti-love potion. She was able to craft a potion that granted immunity to all love potions. The Gorlois women of the time took this potion … and as we have seen, the protection is carried on in the bloodline to this day.”

Morgause’s jaw fell. “Some protection! All it does is make you sick!”

“Yes,” Igraine replied. “Precisely. If one is ill and miserable, one is not hopping into bed with an … ill-chosen young man. One is not running away to get married. One is not signing away the family fortune. One is, as a matter of fact, too busy being sick to do any of those things. I will grant you that it is an imperfect protection – but all the same, centuries of Gorlois women have held it to be better than the alternative, which is no protection at all.”

Igraine turned back to Madam Pomfrey. “Do we know who did this to my granddaughter?”

Madam Pomfrey took a deep breath. “Well … that’s where things get … complicated.”

And they were indeed complicated.

To begin with, Vivianne herself – because of the potion’s effect on her – had no idea whom the Amortentia was supposed to make her fall in love with. They could not even be certain whether the potion had even been intended for Vivianne. Sybilla had originally found the juice bottle in _her_ bag, not Vivianne’s. To make matters even worse, the courtyard had been crammed with students at the time when the juice must have been tampered with.

“But what does that have to do with anything?” Morgause asked. “Just have someone who’s not—allergic—to Amortentia drink the juice. Then they can tell you who they’re obsessed with, and you give them an antidote. If you offer enough house points for it, I’m sure you’ll have students lining up out the door to do it.”

Igraine blinked. Morgause’s idea certainly had a kind of … elegant simplicity to it …

“Deliberately dose a _student_ with love potion?” Madam Pomfrey gasped. “Ms. Gorlois, that is—that is out of the question!”

“Well, have a teacher do it, then,” Morgause shrugged. “Tearose will probably do it, if I ask her. She won’t have the—allergic-ness—will she, Mother?”

Igraine opened her mouth to answer, but Madam Pomfrey was shaking her head. “No, I’m afraid that won’t work. Even if a teacher or staff member did freely agree to do it … the juice bottle was not full when it got to me. In the course of running my tests, unfortunately, I used practically all of the juice.” She pursed her lips together. “You understand, when a patient presents with nausea and vomiting, a love potion is not the first thing one tests for.”

“Oh,” Morgause sighed. “Well, that’s a pity.”

“Indeed,” Igraine murmured.

“But you see why I wanted to speak with you,” Madam Pomfrey went on. “This … reaction is highly unusual. I hoped you might have an explanation – which, thankfully, you did – and if you did not, it seemed to me important that you be made aware.”

“And it was,” Igraine replied for herself and for Morgause. “So we do thank you. However … I think it would be best if we had a chance to see Vivianne.”

“Certainly,” Madam Pomfrey replied. She led the way from her office.

As soon as they exited, Tearose – who had apparently been lying in wait outside the office, not checking on Vivianne – fell into step with them. Igraine quickened her pace to closely shadow Madam Pomfrey, allowing Morgause and Tearose to hang back and whisper together. But Igraine could hear snatches.

“It was in _Sybilla’s_ bag?” Tearose was gasping. “Well, the potion certainly couldn’t have been meant for her! Nothing against Sybilla, but—she’s not exactly the sort of girl boys go slipping love potions to …”

Igraine rolled her eyes skyward.

Madam Pomfrey led them to the bed Igraine had noticed earlier. She went around the privacy curtains first, Igraine following.

Vivianne was curled on her side, her back to them, her eyes closed. She was pale, pale even for Vivianne. Someone had brought her a nightgown to wear, and someone had tied her glossy black hair back in a ponytail that was far messier than Vivianne’s usual standard.

She looked so young – younger than sixteen, even, which was more than young enough – and the way her hand was clutching the blankets …

“Vivianne?” Madam Pomfrey murmured. “Vivianne, you have visitors.”

Vivianne stirred and opened her eyes. She blinked.

“Grandmo—”

She blinked again.

“ _Grandmother_?”

“Hello, Vivi darling!” That was Morgause bursting in, large as life and twice as chaotic. “My poor darling!” She dove in and deposited a kiss on each of Vivianne’s cheeks before Vivianne could do much more than blink. “We’re here to make sure you’re all right. You gave us all a bit of a fright!”

“But I am all right,” Vivianne protested. Then, her eyes narrowed at Madam Pomfrey, “I _am_ all right?”

“Yes—yes, you are, Vivianne,” Madam Pomfrey replied. “The purgative I gave you earlier took care of most of it – and I’ll wager the antidote took care of the rest.”

Vivianne nodded, slowly, though her eyes didn’t stop their curious, cautious volley from mother to grandmother to matron – and head of house, too.

“Vivianne,” Igraine said.

Vivianne looked up.

Igraine pushed the hair out of Vivianne’s face, frowning. There were bags under Vivianne’s eyes and faint stress lines between her brows. With a single wave of her wand, Igraine Summoned a chair and sat down upon it.

She covered Vivianne’s hand with her own. “Vivianne … do you know why you were so sick?”

Vivianne shook her head, glancing at Madam Pomfrey.

“I thought it best to consult with her parents before telling her,” replied Madam Pomfrey.

“I see,” said Igraine. “Vivianne—someone tampered with your juice. You were dosed with Amortentia.”

If Igraine had cause to be disappointed in her daughter’s reaction to that news, she had no such cause for Vivianne.

Vivianne’s eyes narrowed. Igraine saw the tension, the snarl, even before she heard it. “ _What_.”

And Igraine smirked – just a little – just for a moment. The next Gorlois matriarch, it seemed, knew how things were done.

But no sooner had the smirk come than it was gone – for the current Gorlois matriarch had other things to worry about.

Who had slipped the most powerful love potion in existence into Vivianne’s drink?

And more importantly – _why_?

* * *

The lounge was quiet tonight. Even if Vivianne Gorlois wasn’t the most favored student in the school, few of the people in the room would actually have wished her any sort of harm. Kilduff was picking at a chocolate biscuit, doing more to crumble it on her napkin than consume it. Zanetti was sitting on one side of her, making much better work of her own biscuits. But then again, Zanetti, a former Curse-Breaker, had more than once shown a soldier’s mindset. When the world was going to hell, she got her rest, food, and downtime when she could take it—because who knows when she would have the chance if she didn’t.

Kilduff didn’t have that. Zanetti said something in a low tone to the Ancient Runes professor, and when she didn’t respond, Zanetti took her wand from her sleeve and brought it down like she was going to crack the other instructor over the head with it. At the very last moment – about the time the downward force of the wand stirred Kilduff’s frizz – she flicked her wrist and muttered something. A reluctant smile crossed Kilduff’s face and she said something to Zanetti.

“If you can’t use Cheering Charms on your friends and fellow inmates, what good is knowing them?” Zanetti shrugged with a quarter-smile. It was probably the last smile that any of them would share as the door burst open.

“ _You_!” Yaxley shrieked with a sound level probably not matched on campus since the last time they’d had a live band on the premises. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”

“I’m sure you’ll tell us—hopefully after you stop showing us what a good job your waxer did on your Brazilian,” Leo said with a sigh. The woman wouldn’t have known a clue if one bit her in the general area that he’d just commented on. The last thing that Kilduff needed right now was Yaxley shrieking like at levels matched only by banshees and Muggle rock concerts.

But of course Yaxley wouldn’t have courtesy to keep her mouth shut.

“You almost got the next Gorlois Matriarch _killed,_ Leo! Don’t talk to me about—” Yaxley got about that far before Kilduff bowed her frizzy head into her hands and mewled. Yaxley turned to look at the Ancient Runes instructor with a look of distaste.

“Did we?”

“She was dosed with a love potion in _your_ class.” Yaxley planted her hands on her hips.

“A love potion?” Sprout asked curiously.

“I know I wasn’t the best at potions in my day, but doesn’t something have to go disastrously wrong for a love potion to cause that sort of reaction?” Longbottom shook his head, though he seemed troubled.

“It—it was something akin to an—an—allergy.” Yaxley tossed her head and brought her chin up stubbornly.

“And we were supposed to know about this allergy?” Leo asked.

Yaxley glared at him. “No—only—uh—certain people know about it.” She looked uncertain for a moment before picking her glare back up.

“And you’re _positive_ that the dose happened _during_ the archaeology class?” Zanetti glanced over her shoulder at Leo. “Because we had barely arrived in the ruins before Brigid was hurrying out with Vivianne and Sybilla.”

“Well—no,” Yaxley said slowly. “Actually Poppy thought the dose—uh—probably happened during that—and don’t think I’ve forgotten about—about _her!_ ”

“As Shantia used to say, ‘Here’s a pence; call someone who cares.’” Leo didn’t bother to hide the eye roll.

“Shantia?” Longbottom asked before Yaxley could. “Like Head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes? I always wondered if you two knew each other.”

“I’d say so. She got the Lipskit from me.” Leo shrugged. Longbottom looked at him sidelong.

“She’s your wife?”

“Ex-wife. She keeps the last name like a trophy.” Leo smirked briefly. “Point being, Yaxley, I don’t give a pound of skrewt shit if you’re sore about Ben not getting kicked out of class. I’m still not seeing how Miss Gorlois having an allergic reaction—one that we had no idea existed—in class makes us responsible for that reaction. And I assume that you were about to tell us that Pomfrey figured that the drink was dosed during that altercation in the courtyard—and any number of students could be responsible for it.”

“J—my cousin’s daughter, a girl who shares my flesh and blood, is laying up in the infirmary half-dead from reaction and all you can do is deny responsibility.” Yaxley flopped in one of the chairs with melodrama he’d have felt far more sympathy with if she hadn’t exposed her neon green snakeskin knickers with the flop, and if she weren’t sitting—probably because of her too-tall stiletto heels—with her knees splayed out, so he was still seeing them. Longbottom averted his eyes; Flitwick probably couldn’t even _see_ Yaxley over the back of the settee. And there was no way to politely bring up the very openness of her robes to a woman who reminded Lipskit of how Scarlett O’Hara would be played on a telenovela. He simply leaned his head against the wall behind him and cast his gaze at the ceiling … only to see Peeves stick his head through the ceiling and gawk at Yaxley’s knickers.

“If Miss Gorlois’s drink was tampered with in the courtyard, then Camilla, Brigid, and I are no more responsible than any other instructor or prefect in the courtyard at the time—which includes you, and Rove, and at least half a dozen prefects. That’s not me trying to dodge responsibility—that’s facts, Yaxley.” _And you should be one to talk about responsibility with confiscating love potions_. Hell, she fucking _taught_ the students how to make them, then laughed with every spate of dosings, even when McGonagall had made it eminently clear that they were to take it _seriously_.

She had more issue with Skiving Snackboxes, but that might have been because they were a Weasley Bros. product, and Yaxley had a view of Weasleys that would have warmed the heart of all her father’s old friends.

The ones with the snake and skull tattoo.

“At this point, all we can do is attempt to do better, which I’m sure we will all agree to do,” Leo finished. “In fact, I was planning on heading up to the tower and letting them known that this is not a joke—it won’t be taken as a joke—and if one of them is responsible, it’s better to fess up now.”

“You—were?” Longbottom asked. Leo nodded.

“Although I think we can all agree – even you, Yaxley – that Moore isn’t at the heart of this one. More than anyone else in the courtyard this afternoon, we can account for his whereabouts.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I got a bit busy this weekend, so we'll be updating on Monday/Wednesday/Friday this week instead of the usual.
> 
> So, we'll see you on Wednesday!


	14. Chapter 13: That's Where the Wild Things Are

**Chapter 13: That’s Where the Wild Things Are**

“Bloody hell,” Lipskit muttered, probably more to himself than to Rowan and Ben, though he heard the curse and knew Rowan did as well, given the way her head swiveled toward Lipskit.

“Professor Lipskit?” Ms. Caymen asked. “Is it—that thing again?”

Lipskit nodded and moved toward the hole in the garden wall that abutted the Forbidden Forest. A moment later, with the swish of robes, Mr. Bellerose descended upon the space that Lipskit had vacated.

“How—er—how is going, Mademoiselle O’Blake?” He smiled at her, then seemed to notice Ben. “Monsieur Moore.” Ben frowned slightly. “Is there a problem, Monsieur Moore?”

“Just, ‘Monsieur Moore,’ it sounds like a cheese—a terribly _pretentious_ cheese,” Ben told him. Rowan shifted slightly; the long knife she’d been wielding with no trouble a moment before seemed to waver. Ben reached over and pushed down on the tang of the blade until the knife was sitting on the cutting board. She blinked and looked at him, her eyes made even wider by the magnification of her glasses, a blush starting to bloom in her cheeks.

“I—see,” Mr. Bellerose said with that very … French sort of disdain

“Yeah, if I were gonna be a food, it’d probably be some chips.”

Rowan giggled slightly. “B-B-British c-chips or American o-ones?” she asked when Ben grinned back at her.

“Either or. They’re both fried potatoes,” Ben said. “Now if Rowan here were a food, she’d probably be … something like mango salsa.” Now both Rowan and Mr. Bellerose were looking at Ben like he was crazy. “What? It’s a little sweet, complex, and often has an unexpected kick to it. I think it sounds like you.”

“Oh,” Rowan said, the little color in her cheeks blooming to a full deep red flush. Her lashes veiled her eyes as she smiled and looked at the plants on the board in front of her. Mr. Bellerose just frowned.

“Is it truly complimentary to compare a young lady to food?” Mr. Bellerose touched Rowan’s arm and the frown transferred from his face to Rowan’s. She shifted her arm out from under Mr. Bellerose’s fingers and shot him a hard look. He looked vaguely puzzled, then embarrassed, as if he just realized that he’d touched Rowan.

“Well, you _can_ eat them both,” Ben said blandly.

“You—c-c-can? L-like—a c-cannibal?” Rowan asked.

“I was more thinking like oral sex, but meh, cannibal works too,” Ben shrugged.

“Now _that_ , Monsieur Moore, is something one should _not_ talk about in mixed company,” Mr. Bellerose gasped. “Such things are not for the ears of young ladies.”

“My cousin woulda had that crack out before I did. And she _is_ a young lady—by some definition of the word anyway.”

“‘Young’ or ‘lady’?”

“Well, she’s young by pretty much anyone’s definition of the word—it’s ‘lady’ you have to play fast and loose with. ‘Lady’ as in ‘girl who likes dresses an’ make-up an’ be bein’ pretty’? That’s all my cousin. ‘Lady’ as in ‘shy delicate little flower who wouldn’t say—somethin’ crude if she had a mouth full of it’?” Ben finished somewhat lamely. “Not so much.”

That wasn’t exactly the way Desi would have phrased the whole thing, but Ben didn’t really need to get into more trouble. He didn’t know if the Ministry TAs were allowed to take points off, but he didn’t need to press his luck, either.

“So, your cousin is a … what do they call it?”

Ben’s expression went flat.

“My cousin is a feminist. Desi thinks what’s good for the gander is perfectly fine for the goose. If I can joke about sex with my friends—as boys do—then she should be able to joke with her friends about it too. A lot of the concept of ‘mixed company’ is due to thinking that boys should be X and girls should be something else.

“Girls don’t need white knights on shining steeds. They can want them, if they choose—just like Rowan’s perfectly capable of Gibbsing me upside the back of the head and telling me to watch it if she’d prefer I minded those mixed company gender lines.” Ben’s eyebrow quirked upward.

“Gibbsing?”

“From a TV show, NCIS. The main character, Leroy Jethro Gibbs, smacks some of his employees upside the back of the head when they’re being out of line. So we all call it Gibbsing someone.”

“Oh. I th-think I’d ask you to s-s-stop b-b-before I s-s-smacked you.”

“Probably for the better. I’ve got a skull like a Bludger,” Ben teased. “You’d hurt your hand long before my head.”

* * *

Rowan giggled. It wasn’t hard, with Ben around. Honestly, the more time passed – and especially since what had happened to poor Vivianne—

The thought screeched to a halt. _Poor_ Vivianne? Rowan found herself looking around the gardens. She didn’t think the Slytherin girl was a Legilimens – but it seemed like the sort of talent a Gorlois woman would find useful to cultivate.

And if anyone found out that the hapless half-blood was referring to the Slytherin Queen as “poor Vivianne,” even just in her thoughts, what Frida and Trish had done to her last year would be a walk in the park compared to what she would have coming to her.

“Something wrong, Mademoiselle O’Blake?” asked Mr. Bellerose. Rowan looked up.

He was standing awfully close. Maybe it was a Continental thing? She knew that concept of how close was too close varied from place to place. Maybe the French were a little more comfortable with people being near than the stodgy Brits.

Of course, the trouble with that realization was that she knew that the Americans were, if anything, worse than the Brits. And if she edged away from Mr. Bellerose, she would be invading Ben’s personal space.

_Fun._

She looked down and shook her head. With a deep breath and a stern glance at the knife, she picked it up again and continued to chop the plant samples.

She might have been rubbish at walking across a room, but at least she could chop without losing a finger.

She made efficient enough work of the plants, but she could still feel Mr. Bellerose nearby, far too close to her for comfort. Rowan felt a flush started to grow and turned slightly away from him. Toward Ben.

He raised an eyebrow – a friendly enough eyebrow, but still an eyebrow – at her.

“Um,” Rowan stumbled, “er …” She swallowed. “D-d-do – do you m-m-miss it?”

“Miss what?” asked Ben.

“Oh! Um – telly. American t-t-telly, that is,” she corrected. “While you’re—um—here.”

“Now an’ then,” Ben shrugged. “Mostly durin’ baseball season. Can’t even get the World Series news over here, an’ forget about spring trainin’. Sometimes I ask Desi, but she isn’t exactly reliable when it comes to sports news.” He flashed a grin at her.

“Base—ball?” Mr. Bellerose repeated. Rowan dared a glance at him to see him frowning.

“Muggle sport,” Ben replied.

“It’s—it’s a b-b-bit like c-c-cricket, isn’t it?” Rowan asked. “B-b-baseball, I mean.”

Ben blinked, but he nodded. “Yeah—just a bit. O’ course there are a lot of differences.”

“R-r-right,” Rowan agreed. “But—s-s-somewhat similar.” She tucked a bit of hair behind her ear, gaze still trained on her chopping, grateful that she’d thought to do that with the hand _not_ holding the knife. “M-m-my d-d-dad used to p-p-play c-c-cricket when he w-was in school. He t-t-tried to t-teach me how to p-play when I was y-younger, but …” Rowan shrugged. “It r-r-requires m-more c-c-coordination than I h-have.”

“I am sure that is not true, Miss O’Blake,” Mr. Bellerose spoke up.

Rowan couldn’t help it. She stared at him. How many times had she fallen on her bottom since the class had started? How many times had she tripped over invisible obstacles? How many things had she dropped?

How on earth could she _possibly_ play a sport that not only involved running quickly, but also hitting a ball with a stick, bowling it, and catching it?

But maybe Mr. Bellerose didn’t know this. Most wizards couldn’t tell cricket from football. “It’s—um—k-k-kind of a c-c-complicated s-sport,” Rowan hedged. “It—um—it w-w-would not w-work well if I t-t-tried to p-play it.”

“It is a Muggle sport, no?” asked Mr. Bellerose with a very Gallic shrug. “How difficult can it be?”

Rowan pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, gaping. Ben, however, seemed to bristle. “You’d be amazed how difficult Muggle sports can be,” was all he said.

“R-r-right,” Rowan agreed. “I m-m-mean—all you have to d-d-do is turn on the t-t-telly and—well—” She looked at Ben and shrugged.

Ben, however, was surveying her with an eyebrow raised just a tad. “I didn’t peg you for a sports fan.”

“Oh—um—w-w-well …” She glanced sidelong at Mr. Bellerose. He had his arms crossed before his chest and was leaning languidly to one side, smiling slightly in her direction. Rowan’s heart started to pound, and not in a good way. “I—uh—h-honestly I p-prefer Quidditch,” she admitted. “Although f-f-football can be f-fun to watch. I—I c-c-caught ice hockey once, too, d-d-during the Winter Olympics one year, and—and that was f-f-fun to watch, t-t-too.”

“What team do you follow?” Mr. Bellerose asked. Rowan looked up in some surprise. “In Quidditch,” he clarified.

“Oh—um—F-F-Falmouth F-Falcons,” Rowan admitted.

Mr. Bellerose’s eyes widened. “Are they not the team known for rough play?”

“Um … y-y-yes …”

Ben, she saw, was shooting her a confused glance as well. “They’re my m-m-mum’s team,” Rowan admitted, feeling the heat rush to her face. “She’s b-b-been b-b-bringing me to g-games since I was s-s-small.”

And – just like that – it was like Ben had no further questions, no desire for further questions. He only nodded.

Rowan wondered about that.

But she hadn’t long to wonder. “I think we should start packing up, everyone,” said Ms. Caymen. She glanced at her watch. “It’s just five-thirty.”

“Oh!” Rowan murmured. She glanced at her cutting board. At least she was pretty much done. She hurriedly started sweeping the samples into the bags they’d prepared for them. She almost knocked the knife off the cutting board when she did that.

“Here,” said Mr. Bellerose. His hand fell on hers—then the knife. “Allow me.”

Rowan might have thought nothing of it, except for the way that his other hand fell on her shoulder.

She couldn’t help it. She edged away—quicker than she meant to—and bumped right into Ben’s elbow. “Oh! I’m s-s-so s-s-s-sorry!”

“Don’t mention it, darlin’,” he replied. He caught her eye, then cast a quick glance at Mr. Bellerose, followed by a raised eyebrow.

Rowan could only shrug in reply.

But all the same—even as she packed things up as quickly as she could—even as she went back with the group to the courtyard—even as she stayed as far away as she could from Mr. Bellerose and as close as she dared to Ben—she wondered why Mr. Bellerose was so … _friendly_ all of a sudden.

And she wondered why, precisely, his friendliness made her stomach tie in knots.

* * *

It was late; Zach had had time to finish his rounds at curfew and return to the common room, finish up the last of his Ethical Uses of Love Potions essay for Professor Yaxley’s class, and flop down in one of the squishy chairs in the common room with his slightly battered secondhand guitar. The door to one of the dorms burst open, catching the attention of the double handful of sixth and seventh year students occupying the common room. It didn’t take that long to figure out who was shuffling into the common room, a pair of pony slippers on her feet, an RAF tee-shirt that her narrow neck and shoulders almost would have fit through the neck hole on, and a mop of messy blonde hair hanging into her face. She clutched a box to her chest, the end of her wand still glowing.

Spencer jerked his head toward the lounge that Miri had thrown herself on, balling up like a cat, arms wrapped around her knees.

“Hey, kid,” Spencer said, perching on the very edge of the lounge, not too close to where Miri sat.

“Yes, I should be in bed. I should be asleep. I’m not—leave me alone.” She glared at the two older boys, her chin came up stubbornly, showing a bright red mark marring one cheek.

“Did one of the other girls slap you?”

“I’ve been hit harder by falling leaves,” Miri dismissed.

“What happened?” Zach asked, sitting on the plush ottoman that served as a coffee table for this grouping.

“I—couldn’t sleep—so I was looking at some pictures my gramma sent. Of Henry—and me—like when I was a baby.” She muttered at the box before pulling it back toward her chest, clinging to it like it was the only thing she had left. “I closed my curtains—and was under the covers—even if I was using my wand like a torch—but Dara said it was too bright and I needed to turn it off.”

Spencer and Zach frowned at each other. He seemed to remember someone saying something about the curtains in the girls’ dorm. They were not the heavier weight ones from the boys’ dorm. Maybe that was it.

“I was—actually _tryin_ ’ to put my pictures back when she opened my curtains and tossed my pictures on the floor. An’ when I told her to leave my stuff alone, she just sneered that I was milking this whole my brother died poor-poor-poor me thing.”

“Miri …” Spencer said softly.

“I called her a bitch and she slapped me.” Miri looked at Zach as if she were expecting him to take points off for the swearing. “I should though—shouldn’t I? Get over it. Missing Henry isn’t going to bring him back.”

“Nobody gets to tell you how to feel, Miri,” Spencer said. “The only person who gets to tell you when you’ve grieved enough is you. Don’t change that because Dara or anybody says something.”

“If you still miss Henry, then you can miss Henry—it might not always make it easy to get along with your peers—but you’re not wrong because you’re still grieving,” Zach seconded.

“I think some of my pictures are still on the floor—but I don’t want to make the other girls mad at me too.” Miri’s voice broke a little.

“ _Accio_ Miri’s pictures,” Spencer said. A half-dozen photographs shot through the dorm door and dropped easily into Spencer’s hand; he handed them to Miri, who looked more like she was about to cry than when she mentioned that the pictures were missing. “I’ll help you put them back if you’d like.” Miri’s smile flickered a little, but she nodded.

Zach put his guitar on his lap and picked a few chords off it. Miri looked up at him. “That’s—uh—U2, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Henry liked U2.” Miri smiled faintly.

He picked through the U2 songs he knew well enough to play, watching as she started blinking more frequently then pulled a throw pillow off the corner of the lounge, hugging it to her chest. After her eyes were more closed than open, he switched to old lullabies. Spencer smiled, but it flickered when he glanced at Miri now curled up on the cushion next to him, pony slipper falling off her foot. “Poor kid.”

Zach nodded before gesturing to Juliette. Rather than giving him grief, she wordlessly picked the blonde girl up and carried her toward the dorm room.

“So now that you’re done with Muggle mope music,” she said when she reappeared, “how ‘bout playing some of the good stuff?”

“Like what?”

* * *

“This is _bullshit_ ,” huffed Antony Quince. A clatter followed the pronouncement. “Ethics of Love Potions? Is Yaxley bloody serious?”

At a table not far off – though not within a line of sight – Vivianne’s, Sybilla’s, Frida’s, Trish’s, and Belle’s heads all popped up.

Sound carried oddly in the library. Perhaps that was Madam Pince’s secret to always being there whenever a student was eating, or drinking, or talking too loudly, or trying to sneak into the Restricted Section. But there was no sign of her now.

“Well, _really_ ,” Belle whispered, but Vivianne lifted one hand.

She wanted to listen.

“Well, I don’t know,” replied Midas Borgin. “You can’t blame her for being upset after what happened to Vivianne.”

“She’s only pissed because Vivianne’s her niece or—something,” Antony scoffed. “Bet your ass that if any other girl – even another Slytherin girl – ended up in the hospital wing puking after bad love potion, Yaxley wouldn’t be this pissed about it.”

Belle gasped and Trish’s eyes widened. But Sybilla rolled her eyes and Vivianne shrugged.

She’d have to be stupid to not admit that Antony probably had a point.

“Could be worse,” Blake replied.

Vivianne’s ears perked up even more – if that were possible.

“After all,” Blake continued, “it’s only one scroll, right? At least she didn’t make it long.”

“Easy for you to bloody say. _You’re_ not writing it,” Antony scoffed.

“I’m supposed to be contrite because I’m not taking Potions?”

“Look, Blake, as much as I get why Yaxley’s upset, Antony’s right. The last thing we need is another bullshit essay,” Midas pointed out. “Anyone who was smart enough to make the potion and get it into Vivianne is more than smart enough to tell Yaxley exactly what she wants to hear in this essay.”

“What she wants to hear?” asked Antony. “ _I_ don’t bloody well know what she wants to hear. She’s never fucking cared about love potions before. You remember what she was like last year when Samantha Barton got dosed? She just laughed!”

“That was a Mudblood Hufflepuff,” Midas dismissed.

“But look at the bright side, Antony; we’ve figured one thing out,” Blake replied. Vivianne knew that note in his voice – it only came out when he was about to deliver the _coup de grace_ in a verbal duel. “It couldn’t have possibly been _you_ who dosed Vivianne.”

There was a moment of silence – and then Midas guffawed, and even Antony had to let out a rueful chuckle.

“Well, Trish?” Frida whispered. “That bother you?”

“Bother _me_? Not hardly.” Trish flipped her hair over her shoulder in a gesture she had copied – imperfectly – from Cornelia. “I like ‘em dumb.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Sybilla muttered to her book.

Vivianne waved her hands to get her tablemates to pipe down. The boys were speaking again.

“But … wait,” Midas was asking. “Who bloody well was it who dosed Vivianne, then?”

“What’s that’s supposed to mean?” asked Blake.

“Well … I’ll be honest … I was kind of thinking it might have been you. I mean,” Midas went on, “you’ve been trying to get into her skirts since, what, last May? I wouldn’t have blamed you if you wanted to hurry things along.”

Belle gasped, and even Frida and Trish’s eyes went wide. Sybilla looked up from her book and turned to Vivianne with a raised eyebrow.

But Vivianne only tilted her head to one side and listened.

Blake … snorted?

“Are you bloody daft, Borgin? A _real_ man doesn’t need to ply his girl with a love potion. Besides, haven’t either of you heard of the thrill of the chase?” Vivianne could just imagine him putting his hands behind his head, stretching and filling all the available space in that … way he had. “Neither of us wants it to end too soon. Once the chase is over, then what?”

“Well,” Antony snickered, “most of us would say that’s when the fun part begins.”

“Oh, sure,” Blake answered, “but it’s not the same. We’re both enjoying ourselves now. And when this stops being fun, we’ll move on to the next stage. Simple.”

_Hmm …_ Vivianne thought.

Slowly, quietly, she got up.

“Vivianne, where—” Belle started.

Vivianne put her finger to her lips, grabbed her compact mirror from her pocket, and ducked between the stacks of books.

She barely made it five steps before she heard footsteps following hers – Sybilla’s.

It didn’t take them long to find just the right row of books to follow toward the boys. Vivianne glanced from side to side before sliding onto the floor. Sybilla followed her. Then Vivianne took out the compact mirror and murmured, “ _Leviosa_.”

The compact mirror floated up and angled itself just right, so that Vivianne and Sybilla got a perfect view of the boys at their table.

_Now … let’s watch the show._

“But seriously, mate,” Antony was asking, “who do you think did it? You’ve got to be keeping an eye on the competition, eh?”

“That’s what troubles me,” Blake replied. “There’s no serious competition. No one else is making a real play for her. I mean, sure, there’s always other lads waiting in the wings … but you’d think you’d try flowers and chocolates before skipping straight to the love potion, wouldn’t you? So who can it be?”

“Another girl?” Midas asked.

Antony’s jaw fell. “You mean—a dyke?” He frowned, his thick brows drawing inward. “I could see it … but how many dykes are there in Hogwarts, anyway?”

“No, not a lesbian,” Midas corrected. “I bloody looked love potions up, unlike you. If you’re giving someone a love potion, you don’t have to make them fall in love with you. You can make them fall in love with anyone – as long as you have their hair, or a nail clipping, or even dandruff. Think about it. Some bitch has a problem with Vivianne – or Sybilla Cromwell, ‘cause Yaxley said that the juice bottle was in her bag – so she grabs the hair of an ugly Mudblood lad, fixes up a love potion, feeds it to Vivianne, and watches hilarity ensue.”

Vivianne’s eyebrows rose. She glanced sidelong at Sybilla to see what she was thinking of this.

Sybilla’s eyes were narrowed and her lips were pursed, thoughtful. So – perhaps this avenue of investigation was worth pursuing.

_It’ll be a bloody long one. The list of girls who’d like to take me down a peg is much longer than the list of boys who want to get in my knickers._

“Could even be the same girls who set up the puppet show, because you know that was a bunch of girls. _That_ little trick has ‘bitch’ written all over it, whatever Yaxley might try to say about Moore and his mates,” Midas went on. “They take down Frida and Trish as a distraction, and then, while everyone’s laughing at the puppet show, they slip the potion into Vivianne’s juice. Perfect plan, when you think about it.”

“Except for the part where Vivianne projectile vomits over her best friend and a teacher, and Yaxley assigns us all these essays,” Antony said.

“Well, no plan is without its fatal flaw.”

“Indeed,” Blake agreed.

For a moment there was silence. Vivianne watched as the three boys bent over their books and parchments once again. She waited, wondering if the conversation would begin again.

Antony looked up, and Vivianne allowed herself to hope.

“Hey—Borgin—what else did you find out about love potions?”

Vivianne rolled her eyes. She felt a tug on her sleeve and glanced at Sybilla. Sybilla gestured to the stacks of books.

Vivianne nodded, and the two of them dived deeper into the stacks, twisting and turning until they found a place where they were likely to be neither heard nor observed.

“Well?” Sybilla asked.

“Well?” Vivianne replied. “You’re the evil genius. What do you think?”

“You actually give a damn about people,” Sybilla said. “What do _you_ think?”

Vivianne frowned and thought.

She didn’t think it was Blake. Blake had the typical fragile male ego. To be dosing her with a love potion would be the same as admitting defeat – and she had given him no reason to do that.

Antony? Antony wasn’t smart enough to make Amortentia – and he would have had to have made it, because the odds that he’d have been able to buy it and have slipped into the castle were remote.

And Midas … Vivianne couldn’t see it. If Midas had dosed her for himself, he’d soon be crossing wands with Blake. Midas wouldn’t draw attention to himself like that. Hell, if Midas wanted her, he’d be more likely to do what he’s suggested had been done to Vivianne – dose Blake with love potion for some ugly Muggle-born, let him make a fool of himself in front of Vivianne, and then try to win Vivianne after a respectable amount of time had passed, so Blake couldn’t be upset with him. Have your cake and eat it too: that was the Slytherin way.

“Do you think it was a girl?” Vivianne asked. “Midas did bring up a good scenario; I’ll give that much to him.”

Sybilla frowned. “Are there any girls in our house brave enough to try that? You’d destroy them if you found out.” She took out her walnut wand and twirled it. “And I’d help.”

“True …” Vivianne mused. “Not in … no.”

“No?” Sybilla asked.

“Not in our house,” Vivianne shook her head. “A Hufflepuff wouldn’t be that cunning. A Ravenclaw wouldn’t be that cruel. And a Gryffindor wouldn’t be that smart.”

“A Gryffindor would want to take you down in a way that made it clear _she_ took you down,” Sybilla agreed. “Hexing be damned.”

“Indeed.” Vivianne frowned. “There’s another thing.”

“Oh?”

“I do believe that every girl in our house who would have the knowledge and the guts to try that stunt was thoroughly engrossed by the puppet show or else nowhere near the courtyard.”

“Ah,” Sybilla nodded. “Well, there goes that idea, then. A pity. It did have possibilities.”

“Well, it’s not so bad,” Vivianne answered. “After all, you know what they say. ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’”

Sybilla made a face. “Who the bloody hell says that?”

“Er … Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh. The detective?”

Vivianne nodded.

“… Well, that makes sense,” Sybilla replied. “If you’re Sherlock Holmes, then, does that make me Wilson?”

“Watson,” Vivianne corrected with a slight smile.

“Watson, then.”

Vivianne chuckled. “Do you want to be Watson?”

“Depends. Do I have to wear the stupid hat?”

“Holmes wears the hat.”

“Very well then,” Sybilla nodded. “I’ll be Watson to your Holmes – and we’ll see who solves the mystery first.”


	15. Chapter 14: Don't Stand So Close to Me

**Chapter 14: Don’t Stand So Close to Me**

The day was cold and wet, and that weird mist-sleet hybrid that made fall in northern Scotland so _delightful_ had hung around all day. They had moved inside the ruins, as staying in the gardens all day – even with cloaks and gloves and water-repelling charms – was akin to inviting a cold to tea. The sixth-years were sorting the last of the cuttings that the seventh-years had put together the previous day. Rowan pulled a piece of parchment out of the folds of the preserving-charm-laced cloth that the cuttings had been wrapped in and chuckled. When Ben looked at her, she grinned widely, even if her eyes were still turned slightly down and to the side, and tipped the note toward Ben.

“AHHHH! Don’t look behind you! Don’t! Look! Don’t … You just looked didn’t you?” an expressive hand that reminded Ben of a tagger had scrawled across the page. It turned out that Rowan’s friend, Aubrey, was in the seventh year class and in the group that was assigned to the gardens opposite theirs. He liked to leave interesting or funny little notes for Rowan to find when their work intersected.

Ben grinned back at her, and a tiny spread of pink went across her cheeks and nose.

“From a suitor, Mademoiselle O’Blake?” Mr. Bellerose asked, seating himself on the stool to the left of Rowan that Lipskit had been in just a few moments before.

“No—j-just a f-f-friend,” Rowan said, shrinking in on herself a little. Ben took a deep breath, tried to remind himself that Rove was at the end of his patience with Ben, that Lipskit had very little patience to begin with, and that while Mr. Bellerose was akin to a teacher’s aide, he was still too close to a teacher for Ben to fuck with. Mr. Bellerose smiled invitingly, as if trying to get Rowan to say more.

“He’s in th-the seventh year c-class, and—just likes to leave m-me little notes, s-sometimes.” Rowan ducked her head and took some clippings from the cloth and placed them on the board in front of her, picking up the knife before stopping – probably to look at it shaking along with her hand.

“Which young man might this be?” Mr. Bellerose asked.

“Aubrey, uh—Aubrey Pierson.”

“Oh—the young man with the … colorful eyes?”

“They’re c-contact lenses. He—he likes them.” Rowan brushed her hair back from her face, gasping a moment later. It caught Ben’s attention and Mr. Bellerose’s. The sap that had stuck to Rowan’s gloves from the plantings had streaked straight across her cheek, a line of red spreading from it.

“Mademoiselle! You are having a reaction to the sap.”

“No, really?” Ben muttered under his breath, Rowan’s eyes snapping toward him; something almost like a smile flickered on her face just for a moment. “That’s—from that bush that Ms. Caymen thought was some type of heirloom oleander, isn’t it?”

“I-I th-think s-s-so,” she said stripping off her gloves. “I-i-it’s odd th-that oleander sap would c-cause a s-skin reaction. U-usually i-it has to b-be ingested.”

Mr. Bellerose stared for a second at Rowan. Ben snapped his fingers, twice.

“The med kit is that way—and I can’t get past Rowan and you both without bowling someone or something over, Mr. Bellerose. If she’s having a bit of a reaction, we should probably get on that.”

“C-charcoal—and water. Wash the sap off—rub the reaction area it with charcoal.” Rowan said, taking the stool that Mr. Bellerose hopped off of as the TA went off toward the med kit, Ben cast around for Ms. Caymen or Professor Lipskit—neither of whom seemed to be near. Rowan grabbed Ben’s arm as he made as if to go look for them.

“P-please—please s-stay?”

“Sure, sure,” Ben said.

“Monsieur Moore, why are you just standing there? Surely you should go find Ms. Caymen.”

Ben took a deep breath, throttling down his automatic response of “the hell I’m leaving any girl alone with _you_ ,” and tried to think of a politic way to say the same basic thing.

“I _asked_ him to stay, Mr. Bellerose,” Rowan said. “If I really am having a reaction—maybe it’s best not to leave me over here alone.” It was almost said sharply, and he would have applauded her if she hadn’t reached over and popped the medical kit open and rifled through it. She grabbed a stick of charcoal and some of the neutralizing cloths in it. Thrusting a cloth and the charcoal at Ben, she pushed her glasses up onto her forehead.

Beau and Lucinda – who had apparently taken Ms. Caymen and Lipskit’s absence as a chance to play a period or two of tonsil hockey – looked over at them.

“I’ll go find Lipskit!” Lucinda said.

“A-and I’ll go find Ms. Caymen,” Beau said nervously, as if them sucking face in class was any sort of priority at the moment.

“Swab off the sap, Ben.”

“Should you be doing that?” Mr. Bellerose asked worriedly.

“I know how to treat oleander poisoning, Mr. Bellerose,” Rowan said with no trace of a stammer as Ben gently but steadily swabbed at the sap. “I’ve been taking first aid courses for the past few years—both at St. Mungo’s and Muggle ones. I—” She hissed her breath in between her teeth as Ben reached the worst part of the sap trail.

“Do you wish me to do that?”

“No! No, it w-would have stung no m-matter who was c-cleaning it,” Rowan said. “Pain is j-just a p-part of first aid sometimes. Is the s-sap gone?”

“Yeah.”

“O-okay, r-rub the c-charcoal onto the area.”

“Mademoiselle, are you certain?”

“Yes, I’m s-sure. Ben, please.” Ben ran the stick over the sap trail. “The charcoal s-should neutralize the s-sap.”

“I do not like this,” Mr. Bellerose told her.

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to,” Ben said, peering at the streak of charcoal now on Rowan’s face.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Rowan’s careful—always—with her plants. I’m the one who’d toss somebody a phallic tuber without mind for possible reaction,” Ben rolled his eyes. “But it’s a lot harder for someone to pay attention and be careful when you’re lurking around like the kind of guy that causes Chris Hansens to pop out of nowhere.”

“Your pardon?”

“Has it ever occurred to you that you’re making Rowan uncomfortable? And that you’re supposed to be a teacher’s aide—not a pedophile?”

* * *

Rowan gasped.

Mr. Bellerose stared at Ben, and Rowan wished she was wearing her glasses. She could barely make out his expression. His head was tilted to one side, and Rowan thought his eyes were narrowed, but …

She glanced at Ben. Ben’s face was hard enough to read when she could see more than a foot in front of her face, but now? Impossible. There was still – something, though. Something in the line of his shoulders, the very _solid_ way he stood, that was daring Mr. Bellerose to challenge him, prove him wrong.

“A—foot— _what_?” demanded Mr. Bellerose. “Monsieur Moore—”

“P-p-p-paedophile,” Rowan translated. “It—um—”

She didn’t need to explain. She heard Mr. Bellerose’s gasp.

“Monsieur Moore,” Mr. Bellerose said, “that is—without doubt—an entirely uncalled for—”

“It’s only uncalled for if it’s not true,” Ben interrupted.

“Do not be ridiculous. Of course it is not true. Mademoiselle O’Blake—”

“A-a-actually—” Rowan interrupted.

Both of them looked at her. Rowan’s heart started to pound.

But it wasn’t the good kind of pounding, the way her heart fluttered – well, used to flutter – when Beau looked in her direction or smiled at her. It was the pounding that came when Trish caught sight of her and pointed her out to the other Slytherin girls, or when Frida began to finger her wand. It was the pounding that came when Professor Yaxley’s gaze swept onto Rowan or the contents of her cauldron.

She gulped. She couldn’t back down now.

“Y-y-y-you—y-y-you s-s-sort of d-d-d-do.” The word _sorry_ was on the tip of her tongue but Rowan bit down on it.

She would have enough pride not to apologize for feelings that were – probably – perfectly natural.

“What?” Mr. Bellerose gasped.

And then—he leaned closer to her, and Rowan found herself leaning away as far as she possibly could without falling off the stool – or onto Ben. “ _Non, non_ – Mademoiselle O’Blake, that is not what is meant—”

“What the hell difference does it make what you mean?” Ben interrupted. “She already told you how she feels.”

“Monsieur Moore—”

“P-p-please stop,” Rowan said, still leaning away. “P-p-please j-just s-s-stop.”

Mr. Bellerose stopped, staring at Rowan. Then – slowly – he leaned back, away from Rowan.

Rowan let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

“My apologies, Mademoiselle. These … discussions should not take place before the tender ears of the ladies.”

Ben slapped his forehead, and Rowan shot him a rueful smile.

And then—salvation, of the kind that Mr. Bellerose might actually pay attention to.

“Rowan? Ben? Julien?” That was Ms. Caymen, bustling into the room with – Rowan assumed – Beau by her side. It was certainly the right height and build and hair color. “Beau said that Rowan was—”

Ms. Caymen stopped. “Oh. You’ve already got everything under control.” She hurried closer nonetheless. “Here, Rowan, let me have a look.”

Rowan pushed her hair out of the way and tilted her chin so that Ms. Caymen could see more easily.

“This is—very well done,” she said. “Very well done, Julien.”

“Actually, it was Mademoiselle O’Blake – and Monsieur Moore – who should take the credit,” Mr. Bellerose replied. “Mademoiselle O’Blake, she knew exactly what to do—and Monsieur Moore, he did it.”

And that, Rowan realized, was that.

He was going to pretend – at least when other adults were present – that Ben hadn’t said what he said. And maybe he was going to pretend that Rowan hadn’t agreed. He certainly wasn’t going to admit that he had been wrong, or that he might have been acting a bit—well—creepy.

_But does it matter if he admits it, as long as he knocks it off?_

“Really?” asked Ms. Caymen, more than a bit impressed. “Well, that’s wonderful – for both of you! However …” She tilted her head, and Rowan imagined she was looking at the charcoal streak on her cheek. “Rowan, I think you should go back to the castle. I think the matron will want to have a look at this.

“But of course,” replied Mr. Bellerose. “I can escort her. Mademoiselle O’Blake, you will have no difficulty walking, no?”

_What? No, bloody hell, no!_

Rowan turned to Ben with her jaw hanging open. Ben did not disappoint. He was taking a deep breath, the kind one could see and didn’t even need to hear—

“That won’t be necessary,” said a voice from the door. “I’ll take her back.”

_Professor Lipskit!_ Rowan thought, the kind of relief that sailors felt at the sight of land flooding through her.

Later, she’d realize just how much was wrong with that feeling.

However, at the time, all she could do was pay attention to how the professor came closer, the dim light still managing to dance off his broadsword and sending reflections bouncing up to the ceiling. “Madam Pomfrey is going to want to hear from a teacher just how it is that two students have managed to have allergic reactions this close together.”

“It’s n-n-not as b-b-bad as V-V-Vivianne’s,” Rowan tried to demur.

“That won’t stop Madam Pomfrey. Up you get, Miss O’Blake, and let’s get you back to the castle.”

She didn’t argue further. She just slid her glasses down (she’d worry about cleaning them later) and hopped off the stool.

But she paused.

Slowly—with a shy smile—she touched Ben’s hand. “Th-th-thanks. For—everything.”

The smile was small—but at least now, Rowan could see it.

He shrugged. “What are friends for?”

* * *

“Because he’s taking Arthimancy and you’re not,” Sybilla informed Vivianne patiently as Zach and Spencer pretended to not to hear them talking about them from three or so feet away.

“Neither are _you_ ,” Vivianne pointed out ruthlessly.

“Yes, and neither is Zach,” Sybilla said. “And of the three of us, which of us is likely to be able to pick up the concepts quick enough to help Spencer with this?” Vivianne rolled her eyes. “That’s what I thought. I’m ‘leaving’ you with Zach, not a Gryffindor firstie hopped up on sugar. You’ll survive.”

Vivianne stared after her friend with narrowed eyes as she swept away after Spencer. She snorted and shook her head.

“So what are _we_ supposed to be doing as the two brainless but pretty ones?” Zach asked.

“You’re not bothered by this?”

“I have three houses of people reminding me that they are smarter than I am. I would say ‘used to this’ long before I would say ‘bothered.’” Zach smiled at her, briefly floored by the way her eyes flickered to the side and down – something she shared with her cousin even if neither of them would acknowledge that they shared that relationship. But it was just a moment before her eyes flickered back up and met his, something that Rowan’s still didn’t do easily even after six years of friendship.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better— _most_ of the Slytherins think you guys are smarter than the Gryffindors,” Vivianne said, gesturing toward one corner of the foyer. There was a door here, magically sealed with runes that no one had yet translated and nobody was interested in forcing open yet. If any of them could have actually broken the locks on the door. They weren’t supposed to be trying to do anything with the door, but there was this interesting little alcove near it, sheltered from the view of the rest of the foyer and so intact that the refreshment pitcher and hammered metal plates were still stacked in the cupboard off it. The table was still _set_ with a goblet waiting to be filled with wine and an intricate glass bowl that probably once held fruit and bore no chips or even cracks in it.

It wasn’t dark in the alcove, not even with the way the flowering ivy had grown in and replaced the curtain that probably once hung across the doorway. Someone had cleverly directed light from a high window overhead down a marble shaft, allowing the white marble to diffuse the light and spread it over the small alcove. And if one didn’t wish this alcove to be found, there was something akin to the pocket door that hid his aunt’s laundry room, though hers was just a plain white panel and this one marble on one side and mosaic on the other.

The scene was a beautiful, still colorful, mosaic. Rather than mother and child, this one showed a woman, one that somehow, some way reminded Zach of the woman from the fountain statue. She knelt at the side of a lake, hand still stretched forth as she sent a flower-filled boat across the surface. Her dark hair covered her face like a veil, but something about the set of the shoulders, even in mosaic form, the way she held herself … it seemed … _familiar_.

“I’m definitely not one for function following form,” Vivianne murmured, catching Zach’s attention.

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Zach said, cocking his head, curiously. Vivianne looked at him curiously. “My mum designs clothes—I’m sure Frida’s talked about that?” He knew that Frida wasn’t in the inner circle of Vivianne’s coterie, but he knew she was right nearby – and he knew that Slytherins paid attention, a lot more attention than most people gave them credit for. “Anyway, she and my aunt, Beth, talk about design elements and stuff at dinner a lot.”

“Ah,” Vivianne said with a nod.

“I’ve—noticed you—you seem to be a little more form follows function—or more you choose form working with function. So it looks good—but isn’t disgustingly uncomfortable, either.” Zach scrubbed at his hair. Vivianne cocked her head to the side, and in a peculiar sort of echo of the mosaic on the panel, she reached a hand out toward him, smoothing his hair down.

Zach froze, less, he’d think later, that he was in shock – and more that if he drew attention to it, she’d stop – and he had no idea why that would really be important.

Unlike when his mother or Jon did it, where it was more or less just smoothing the hair back into its normal place, Vivianne slightly rubbed the hair – like his mother did when she was testing a delicate fabric – her expression rather far away as she cleared the ruffled damage, laying the hair according to some sort of internal … way it should be.

She pulled her hand back from him – that distant expression still on her face – and Zach didn’t move until she had turned back toward the table, tucking her own hair behind her ear.

“So—function following form?” Zach asked.

“Don’t you think all this embossing on the chairs would be—uncomfortable to sit on?”

“It probably had a cushion,” Zach opined.

“Point. And maybe—hmmm.” Vivianne knelt next to the bench-like chair by the table for a moment, her fingers tracing but not touching the runes. Zach followed suit, squatting, his eyes tracking back and forth between the chair and Vivianne’s face, which was thoughtful and not … not entirely there still.

“Do you know what the runes say?”

“That was what I was trying to figure out. They—honestly I think they might be—I’m not sure. This is a rune for warmth. And this is a rune for cold,” Vivianne said, pointing.

“Maybe it’s—uh—comfort-controlled?” Vivianne swung her head toward him. “Well, Muggles have ‘em in their cars. You can adjust how warm a seat is—stuff like that. Um.” He refrained from giving Vivianne a sidelong glance, knowing she’d notice it. “One of my friends, their dad has a car like that. Kinda freaked Jon out the first time we went somewhere in the car.” He wasn’t going to say it was Rowan’s father’s car or anything else about the trip.

“That would make sense. I might have to ask my grandmother—huh …” She trailed off, puzzled, and ran her finger over the center embossing.

“Hmmm? Zach prompted.

“This—it isn’t—it isn’t a rune I recognize—but it’s—oh Merlin’s bloody knickers—it’s familiar, it is so—it’s like that word you can’t think of. But you know it,” Vivianne said, reaching for a piece of parchment with a sigh. She quickly rubbed a stick of charcoal over the parchment; then she looked at him as she rolled it up. “I want to send this to my grandmother—you—you won’t say anything to Professor Kilduff, right? I mean— _she_ probably wouldn’t mind.”

“But it’d twist Langley’s knickers into a right Gordian knot?” Zach smiled at Vivianne.

* * *

Vivianne chuckled. “Precisely.”

She carefully stowed the parchment into her bag and stood again. “After all,” she quoted, more or less, “Mr. Langley is an obstinate man. I do not argue with obstinate men. I act in spite of them.”

She turned to Zach, smirk in place, inviting him to share the joke.

Zach wasn’t smiling. Vivianne’s stomach plunged, or at least it started to plunge.

But the frown he wore – it wasn’t – it wasn’t angry, or even sad. It was more … puzzled.

“Now you’ve got me,” he chuckled. “I know I read that somewhere, but I can’t remember where.”

“Ah,” was all Vivianne said. And—chin tilted up, smirk firmly set back in place—she thought.

She knew where she got the line from – _The Mystery of the Blue Train_ , one of the novels Professor Kilduff had recommended. And it had been good. She had enjoyed it. She had particularly enjoyed that line, seeing as it so neatly encapsulated the Gorlois attitude to life.

But … it was Muggle …

Zach’s eyes suddenly met hers, and Vivianne’s worries were forgotten, because all she could see was blue.

“ _The Mystery of the Blue Train_ ,” he said, and Vivianne saw that he was smiling, too. Her own smirk slowly started to shift.

_Wait. What are we talking about?_

“Right?” Zach asked. “That’s where it’s from.”

“It … is,” Vivianne agreed. And she wondered if that was where it would stay.

It wouldn’t. Zach’s eyes narrowed, and the puzzled frown returned.

But he didn’t ask, at least, not in so many words. Maybe he understood. After all, he’d grown up on the same island as Frida, hadn’t he? He would know – if anyone would – just what it might mean to admit a familiarity with and a preference for Muggle literature.

Well, not a _preference_. Maybe, in the genre of the murder mystery, the puzzle was more clear-cut in Muggle literature, where all one had to do was weigh the psychology and the evidence, and not have to worry about whether someone Apparated into the locked room or if someone was using Polyjuice Potion to masquerade as the murder victim and so throw off the purported time of death – though Vivianne had to admit that Muggle murder mysteries could be quite ingenious, even without all that. But the fact that Vivianne occasionally appreciated the challenge of the Muggle murder mystery did not mean that she wholeheartedly _preferred_ them over wizarding ones. Certainly not.

 “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a murder mystery fan,” Zach finally said. Vivianne’s head jerked to face him.

He almost seemed to jump. “I mean—um—that is—I just wouldn’t have seen it,” he hedged.

_He’s not saying anything about the Muggle mysteries._

So Vivianne permitted herself a smile, and if there was a bit of relief in it, well, nobody would believe Zach when he told them. _If_ he told them. “To tell the truth … I wouldn’t have seen the same for you, either.”

She glanced around the alcove. “But—we should probably get back to cataloging the rest of this.”

Zach nodded slowly. Vivianne turned to the table – there had been runes carved along the sides, and she started to copy them down, crouching so that they were at eye level – and Zach turned his attention to the glass bowl on top of the table.

They worked in silence for a few moments, at least until Zach cleared his throat and rubbed his hair. Vivianne’s hand moved forward to straighten it—

_Vivianne. What. Are. You. Doing?_

Vivianne forced her hand to drop, and she brought her gaze back down to the table and to the runes she was carefully writing down.

“Er—do you have a favorite author?” Zach asked. “Of—murder mysteries, I mean.”

“Metis Foxworthy,” Vivianne said without hesitation. It was not a lie. “She—she’s subtle, I think. Some authors – they write like every murderer has to be the second coming of the Dark Lord. Whereas Foxworthy …” Vivianne shrugged. “She shows you don’t have to have an advanced degree in Defense Against the Dark Arts to craft a good mystery. You just need to be clever.”

She looked up. “You?”

“Cormoran Strike,” Zach replied. “You mostly follow the Auror or private Dark wizard catcher. And—they’re not afraid to break the rules to get things done.” He frowned and shrugged. “Not exactly the most cheerful books, though.”

“Well, any book that starts off with a murder and the promise of more probably won’t be winning any prizes for cheerfulness,” Vivianne replied.

She looked up to find Zach smiling at her. She smiled back.

And somewhere deep inside, she felt something like a flutter.

Vivianne tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. She tried to clear her throat. She tried to think of something to say, some way to take back control of the situation.

“Are you two almost done?” came a voice from just outside the alcove. Vivianne looked up.

Sybilla was standing there, carefully putting parchments and quill back into her bag – and so was Spencer. Vivianne’s eyes narrowed. Usually Sybilla didn’t let anyone but a chosen few get that … close to her.

Spencer seemed to see just how near he was to Sybilla, for with a pair of raised eyebrows, he edged away.

“Yeah—I think we’re about done,” Zach said, glancing toward Vivianne. “Are we?”

Vivianne looked up. “I—I think we are.” And she looked away again, busying herself with her own notes and bag, because if she spent more time looking at Zach, she might …

_You might_ what _, Vivianne?_

“Good, because we’ll be leaving in a moment,” Sybilla said.

“Ah. Well, thank you for informing us,” Vivianne answered. She straightened, shooting one last smile at Zach before leaving the alcove and stepping back into the atrium.

“So,” Sybilla asked when the boys had gone on enough ahead that they couldn’t hear – too well – what they were saying, “do you forgive me for making you work with Zach Duncan, the most handsome boy in our year?”

“Oh, ha-ha,” Vivianne replied, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “But yes, I forgive you. I suppose it could have been worse.” She shrugged. “I mean—he’s not that bad. For a Hufflepuff.”

“… Not that bad?” Sybilla asked.

Something in the tone made Vivianne look hard at her friend. “What?” she asked.

“Oh … nothing,” Sybilla answered.

And with nothing Vivianne would have to be content, for she could see that the chances of getting anything further out of Sybilla were remote.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are back on schedule! Thanks for reading!


	16. Chapter 15: That Was Such an Epic Fail

**Chapter 15: That Was Such an Epic Fail**

_My dearest Zachary,_

_I hope this letter finds you well, though if there were any issues above and beyond the norm at Hogwarts, there would be a front page spread on all that Headmaster Rove is trying to do to fix it. I swear that he is interviewed more by the Prophet than the Minister. I suppose I should be grateful that Hogwarts is quiet enough that there’s nothing wrong with having such a … stolid man as headmaster._

_Any news on the girl front? You act like you can’t even get a date half the time. I’ll never understand that, if there’s anything your father did for you, it was leave you with some very good looks. Then again, your mum was like that too—is still like that. Acts like she’d come in second to a hag in a beauty pageant, when your mum is far prettier than most of the women we see modeling in the rags and what not._

_But now onto why I am actually writing. While I’ll admit to gossiping like a fishwife – I am a fishwife, after all – I try not to be too bad. Not like MISSUS Rowle, who goes out of her way to remind us all that she is still dedicated to her poor incarcerated husband and how the Ministry just purged everyone who subscribed to the Old Ways and was pure-blood, and yet this is the third handsome young foreign wizard she’s sponsored in the past that many years._

_I don’t know if you remember Bert’s cousin, Christopher? Handsome, dark-eyed, all that lovely Douglass blonde hair. If I had any criticism, it would be over that unfortunate tattoo. You met him, oh, four summers ago when Diana, Bert’s mum, rest her soul, passed on. He came and stayed for a while with Bert and Carina while they sorted through Diana’s cottage. I need to remember to ask Carina for that pastry cream recipe. No, no! Write that on the other paper, ruddy quill!_

_Sorry!_

_Anyway—where? Bert’s cousin, Christopher—Diana—right—anyway!_

_Christopher has decided to move back home. Apparently the wide world isn’t as exciting as he thought it was—or perhaps it was too exciting. And—well, he and Wendy had some long talks in the market, although why you would stand next to Mamie Ferguson’s haggis in the market while getting to know each other, I haven’t the first idea._

_Although, then again—I fell in love with my Gavin while watching him gut fish while I chopped their heads off, and that’s not all that much more romantic._

_Anyway—he’s taken your mum out to dinner a few times—even once off the island. And she blushes like an aubergine straight out of the garden when you bring him up—so I’m guessing it is somewhat serious. And I’m also guessing, because I know my sister, that she hasn’t breathed a word of this to you. She’s probably got some rot about you not approving, although it is hard to keep her to the subject. Still, I doubt that she would be worried about you not approving of the use of sweetheart necklines in her Christmas collection._

_Which is very pretty, Zachary, we’ll have to send you some photos. No, I’m certain-sure that my sister thinks you wouldn’t approve of her relationship, which, ha! You may be a Duncan on the tin, but you’re a Somers through and through—and you would never begrudge your mum any happiness._

_Merlin knows she could use some after—Brin! Those biscuits are for dessert, and I haven’t time to make more jam, so no, you can’t have just one. And those are for Zachary. Should I tell him you said hi? Don’t yeah, Mum, whatever me! Oh, I will be so glad when that girl starts up at Hogwarts next year; I’d take You-Know-Who living in the back of my head if it meant another pair of eyes to keep her out of trouble. Not sure where she gets it from …_

_Brin—dessert—happiness—hmm oh, after. After your da. He certainly didn’t waste any time moving on from here, her, you, and everything. Nobody would blame her—except maybe Azalea. She’s been insufferable every time she sees them in the market. No wonder she raised a couple of tits like Frida and Ingrid._

_How’s your little friend Rowan doing—better, I hope? I do worry about her. Juliette is too … French to need worrying about. And Shae—well, Gryffindor, we don’t need to say much else. And no, Zach, that isn’t my old house talking. We do know how Gryffindors are. Nothing scarier than a determined Gryffindor, and your friend Shae does not lack for determination._

_And Claudia, well, I would worry about her—but she’s come into her own more and more since she became a prefect. Little Rowan, though. Is it just me, or does your new little friend, Mira? Miri? Remind you a tad of Rowan? Life just isn’t kind to some people._

_You should have her come to the island instead of just going to London for your next summer holiday. I would love to see her in something other than those dull old Muggle dungarees and trainers. And there’s got to be something to balance her height out. I’ve often thought that she just needs confidence—and maybe a lad. But one thing at a time._

_Well, darling, I need to get back to it, or my sister will wonder what will become of me—and maybe even give me a black mark on my employee review! Well, not a black one, that’d “be mean.” Perhaps a grayish smudge._

_All my love, your aunt, Beth_

* * *

“Fucking inbred bitches!”

Later, Rowan would wonder whether it was luck or fate or just coincidence that led her to be passing the fifth-floor corridor when Candice shouted. At the time, she was too busy running for the voice to do much questioning.

She didn’t think to find a teacher or a prefect, although in hindsight, she would wonder if perhaps she should have. But the problem with that was that Candice had a temper, and when that temper was engaged, she tended to say and do things she really shouldn’t. When that happened, it usually led to Candice ending up in detention or Ravenclaw losing points while whatever had provoked Candice got off scot-free.

And as for the provocateurs in question … there were only so many people in the school who could answer to the description of “inbred bitches” in Candice’s mind, and still fewer who could be considered “fucking inbred bitches.”

That was why Rowan had her wand out before she had taken three steps.

_Where are bloody Jon and Quill when we need them?_ she wondered as she dashed down the hall. Of course they would round on Candice when Rowan was _alone_ —had they planned it that way?

_They’re not that smart._

Rowan ran most of the way, but when she caught sight of the back of a blonde head and the back of a mousy brown head, she ducked behind a statue of Dilys Derwent.

Slowly, she looked beyond the statue, trying to get the lay of the land and trying to _think_ past the pounding in her heart.

“Language, language,” Frida clucked to Candice. “Really, did we start matters by calling you a Mudblood?”

“Who the hell cares about language? Give me back my laptop!”

_Oh bloody HELL._

Rowan leaned a little – and yes, she could see that Frida and Trish had the laptop. Trish was holding it upside down, but she was turning it over in her hands. Mercifully, it was shut.

“Is _that_ what this … thing is called?” Trish asked, scorn dripping from every word. “I’ve not heard of any dangerous contraband called laptops … but I suppose one learns something new every day.”

“It’s not contraband! Jesus Christ! It’s mine, just give it—”

Candice lunged for the laptop, but Frida and Trish were faster. Trish jumped back, and Frida’s wand was out. “ _Impedimenta_!”

Candice froze in place in mid-lunge.

“Much better,” Frida said. “ _Finite_.”

Candice fell to the ground in a sprawl of limbs and robes. Trembling with what Rowan guessed was rage, she made her way to her feet.

“Now,” Frida went on calmly, as if all of this was just a civil, matter-of-fact discussion, “as Trish was saying, we _did_ manage to confiscate this from Peeves. I can’t imagine that _anything_ Peeves gets his hands on is good. I think we’ll have to report it to a prefect. Trish, you know where James is, don’t you?”

“Oh, I do indeed,” Trish snickered. “I’m sure James will have to confiscate it. Maybe, Stewart, if you’re very good and polite, he’ll turn it in to Professor Rove instead of our head of house.”

“Or Filch,” Frida added. “I mean, we know _his_ policy on contraband. He’d probably just destroy … whatever this is, rather than risk it doing harm to the school.”

_Oh bloody hell!_

Rowan had to do something—but _what_?

She fingered her wand and looked at the laptop. Then, taking a deep breath, she pointed her wand at the laptop.

She concentrated, fixing in her mind what she wanted the laptop to do. She closed her eyes and opened them again.

_Leviosa!_

The laptop plucked itself from Trish’s grasp and zoomed down the corridor. “Hey! What the hell?”

Rowan poked her head out from the statue and caught Candice’s eye. _Go!_ she mouthed.

Candice’s eyes went wide. But she did what Rowan said and ran after her laptop without another word.

Rowan let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding and ran in the opposite direction. But her luck had to run out, and it did when she caught her foot against the base of the statue and went sprawling to the ground with a crash.

_Shit shit shit!_

“Well, what have we here?” drawled Frida.

Rowan scrambled to her feet, facing Frida and Trish, wand already held before her with a shaking hand. “S-s-stay b-back.”

There was no sign of Candice. _Good_. She must have still been chasing after her laptop.

“What, already have your wand out, Rowan?” gasped Trish. “That’s awfully aggressive, don’t you think?”

“Indeed. Hardly the actions one would expect from the poor aggrieved innocent,” Frida smirked. “In fact—you already used a spell on us, didn’t you, Rowan?”

“She _did_ , didn’t she?” Trish’s eyes lit up. She took out her wand and began to spin it between her fingers. “ _And_ she helped a student gain access to contraband. Oh, my, you’re just getting into trouble left and right this afternoon, aren’t you, Rowan?”

Rowan said nothing. She took slow step backward after slow step backward. If she could get to where people were—Trish and Frida never tried anything when there were witnesses—

Frida swished her wand, but Rowan was just barely faster. _PROTEGO!_ She thought, pointing her wand at Frida.

“ _Locomotor mortis_!” Frida shouted.

The spell headed right for Rowan—

And bounced off the Shield Charm, filling the corridor with a bright burst of light like the flash of a camera.

Trish shrieked and jumped out of the way. Frida swore.

“Naughty, naughty!” came a cackling shriek. Peeves did a barrel roll through a wall and appeared just behind Frida and Trish. “Pretty girls shouldn’t swear! Makes them ugly!”

“Ugh, _Peeves_!” Trish snapped, and Rowan took her opportunity to run.

It didn’t last long. She heard the spell just before it hit her.

“ _Mordeo_!”

The Stinging Hex hit her just above the ankle, and with a yelp, Rowan crashed to the ground.

She scrambled to turn around, but she didn’t get very far before she heard Frida and Trish snickering and coming closer.

“Well, well, well,” Frida said, twirling her wand and grinning at Rowan. “Let’s have some fun, shall we?”

* * *

“Someday, son, you will thank me for the knowledge of how to transfigure a Kleenex into a jimmy cap in two seconds flat. Now less jawin’, more transfigurin’,” Ben said with a laugh. It was, actually, exactly what Desi had said to him when she’d taught him how to do so a couple summers before. “We have a limited window of time for this.” Ben and his friends were squatted down in a classroom, putting together a prank at fast and furious levels.

“Are you sure,” Cameron asked as Ben tied off the last of the water balloons (well, condoms, but it filled the purpose), “we can’t just go pound them?”

“Hey, Rove flat out fucking _told_ me he’s ‘at the end of his beneficence’ and those two—Yaxley’s got this innocent victim mindset about them. That everyone is picking on them.” Ben sighed. “So, yeah, I’m sure on this.”

“Okay, Cap’n,” Kenny said. “The liquid nitrogen is rigged to go. Ringo’s got the amplification spell on the spellpod, and—if you three are ready with—um—whatever _that’s_ supposed to be—I think we’re ready to go.”

“Are _you_ ready to go?” Ben asked arguably the most important member of their team for the prank. The top hat perched on Peeve’s head actually quivered with excitement, his eyes glittering. He nodded enthusiastically. Ben’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the bouquet of helium filled condoms tied to one of Peeve’s ankles. With a bit of concentration, they molded themselves into balloon animals. “Now we’re ready to go. Tell Ringo to cut the lights.” Ben told Kenny. The brown-haired boy shifted into hare form – he’d finally made the breakthrough in his Animagus transformations just the previous week and was loving changing whenever he could. He disappeared out the door, and a moment later, the entire corridor went pitch black.

“What the—?” Trish’s voice floated back down the hall, only to be interrupted by a series of haunting guitar riffs. Now if Trish and Frida had been Muggle-born – or half-blooded like Ringo, with a Muggle parent (as opposed to half-blooded like Booker, who didn’t have any Muggles or Muggle-borns in the family tree recently, but all the same wasn’t pureblood – or given what Ben had heard from C. Madeline, half-blood like Trish actually _was_ ) they might have recognized the chords as the intro to “Hotel California.” Desi had dated a guitarist over the summer – a member of a classic rock cover band whose lead singer was German – and had recorded many of their staples in both languages.

If they’d been given the time, they might have recognized the language, but Ben had no intention of giving them time to do anything – let alone enough time to think. Given the rate at which Trish’s brain cells fired, thinking would mean Lipskit would have found them by then.

Ben flashed a quick _Lumos_ on his wand to signal Cameron, hoping Trish and Frida weren’t able to see the light from where they were; then he cut the string holding the liquid nitrogen over the water in the cauldrons.

A moment later, fog crept out of the cauldron, snaking across the floor. Ben and Cameron lit the eddies with a couple of candles, the bewitched flame turning the fog an eerie blueish green.

He heard Frida gasp as Kenny darted through the hall, only a faint figure of solid against the ephemeral fog and the weight of the darkness beyond.

Ben nodded at Peeves, who grinned manically and zoomed down the hall.

“Hee hee!” Peeves cackled.

“Shit! Peeves!” Frida snarled right before the sound of a water balloon exploding cut her off.

“Naughty, naughty!” Peeves catcalled again.

“What the, ugh! It’s blood, Frida!” Trish’s voice actually sounded frightened, and Ben had a twinge of guilt about it. It wasn’t; actually, it was a gag item from the Wheezes. Little tablets like Ben had grown up with around Halloween, the type that made your mouth look like it was bleeding – unlike those, however, these came with the smell and slightly heavier thickness of blood. But the effect was temporary; in five minutes they would just be soaked with water. So he shoved that guilt aside. Trish had terrorized too many kids for him to feel sorry about scaring her.

Peeves continued to fly around, the “balloon” birds flying after him, pelting the girls with the water balloons, all to the sound of haunting guitars and growling guttural vocals.

Ringo took his cue. His face morphed; his body colored to the same pearly white of a ghost. He seemed to float through the hall and in and out of the walls. If the girls had been a little more aware of their location, they would have realized he _wasn’t_ walk through walls at all – just out of a doorway and into another.

“W-who’s that?!” Trish asked.

“Owww! Leggo of my tit, you stupid bitch,” Frida snarled, then gasped as Ringo walked out of the door, his head completely gone – with a huge, glowing, evil-looking sickle in his hands. Booker came in right on cue with an illusion of a wild-eyed horse, outlined in fiery light; the horse trotted down the dark hall toward Ringo.

“Get your fingernails out of my arm!” Trish shrieked. Ben waited until the two girls were staring at each other, then shot a gust of wind down the hall, plunging it once more into complete darkness and silence. Frida and Trish gave gasping little sobs. The candles lit themselves, exposing only two soaking wet girls covered in the remnants of exploded condoms, make-up streaked, hair plastered to their heads.

“What happened here?” Jon asked, causing Frida and Trish to turn and look at him – then each other – then back at Jon, and with him, Zach, Claudia, James, and Professor Zanetti.

“There was—” Trish first started to say.

“Do. Not. Say. Anything,” Frida hissed at her. “Peeves just—was— _Peeves_!” Frida snarled. Professor Zanetti’s eyebrow rose. She picked up a large piece of latex off Trish’s shoulder. “He pelted us with water balloons.”

“Frida—these are not balloons,” Zanetti said solemnly.

“They—they aren’t?” Trish asked, looking at the large piece of latex on the top of Frida’s head.

“No. These are _condoms_.”

“EEEWWWW!” the girls said in unison.

“Do you need to see the school matron?” Zanetti asked. The two Slytherin girls looked at each other and then turned to Zanetti.

“No!”

“Well, let someone know if that changes. James, Claudia, why don’t you see that your housemates get back to the common room all right?” the Professor said. “After you’re cleaned up, however, you will need to have a little chat with Professor Flitwick about Candice’s laptop—and your actions as regards Rowan.”

“She—she started it!” Trish protested.

“Really? What did she cast? Specifically? I have _several_ witnesses who saw Frida hit Rowan with a hex. And a couple who claim they don’t know how it started,” the last part was said dryly, “but do, reluctantly, agree that you were in the hall with her. And if need be, I can use a spell to verify what the last several spells cast with all your wands were.”

“Of course you’d be on her side!” Trish said.

“What witnesses?”

“Ones who have no reason to lie or favor either side. Including a couple of your own housemates. If it makes you feel better, _they_ were the ones who claimed not to know how it started,” Zanetti said with a tight smile.

Frida and Trish said nothing, just stalked off down the hall, Trish’s shoe audibly squelching as she walked. Ben looked at his friends who shared his grins, bowed low to Peeves, and backtracked along the hallway toward Gryffindor tower. _Mischief managed!_

* * *

The dorm room was quiet, or as quiet as it ever got. Belle’s wireless was on, filling the room with Goldie and the Snitches’ latest hit. Cornelia’s quill scratched against her parchment. Sybilla absently munched on an apple as she balanced a huge tome on a subject Vivianne wasn’t asking about on her knees. Vivianne flipped through her magazine, wondering idly how long it would be before she could expect a letter back from her grandmother. Isolde was out.

Then the door slammed open and quiet was a distant dream.

“Ugh! Stupid—fucking— _PEEVES!_ ” Frida shouted, almost slamming the door behind her. But Trish was behind her and got in the way of the door.

Vivianne only barely kept herself from jumping as she looked up.

There was no way she could keep her jaw from falling. Even Sybilla was blinking.

Frida and Trish were soaked. Their hair was plastered to their faces and their makeup was running. They were both clutching – well – the bundles of clothes probably had been dry, but Vivianne wouldn’t lay a bet on their being perfectly dry now. But that wasn’t what made her jaw fall. No, that was the white bits of rubber that were stuck on Frida and Trish’s uniforms, their skin, and their hair.

Cornelia was the first to gasp. “Are those—Merlin! _Tell me_ those aren’t condoms!”

“How did you _know_?” Trish squealed, covering her face with her hands.

“How _did_ you know?” asked Sybilla, raising her eyebrow at Cornelia.

“Isolde keeps a box under the bed – but that’s not important!” Cornelia replied. “What’s important is: how did they end up on you two?”

“And what’s more important,” Vivianne added, “is why are you two dripping on our floors when you have a perfectly respectable dorm of your own to drip in?”

Trish flushed red and even Frida looked a little uncomfortable. “May—may we get ourselves cleaned up in here?” Frida asked. “Claudia can’t come in unless you let her in.”

“And please don’t let her in. She’ll be _insufferable_ ,” Trish pleaded.

Vivianne let her eyebrows arch upwards. If they were talking about being insufferable … well, there were days that Vivianne would put Frida and Trish much higher on that scale than Claudia. After all, Claudia was known to get along with lots of people from different houses, including …

Vivianne wasn’t going to think about that.

She rolled her eyes and sighed instead. “Fine. You can get cleaned up in here.” She waved toward the changing screens at the opposite end of the room.

“And what happened?” asked Belle.

Neither of them answered until they were behind the screens. “Peeves happened,” Frida growled.

“You mentioned Peeves. What did he do?” Sybilla asked.

“He threw the—the _condoms_ at us! Filled with _blood_!” Trish wailed.

“ _Blood_?” Belle gasped.

“You haven’t got any blood on you,” Sybilla pointed out.

“Well—no—not now—it must not have been real,” Trish admitted. “But it certainly was blood when it hit us! Wasn’t it, Frida?”

“It certainly looked like it. And smelled like it.”

Remembering the last time she had smelled blood in sufficient quantities – with Frida in the room – Vivianne suppressed a shudder and wondered if she ought to cast a Silencing Charm around her bed.

“That’s awful,” Belle said. “Why would he do that?”

“Because he’s bloody _Peeves_ , that’s why,” Frida snapped. She tossed her soaking wet jumper over the top of the screen. “Does there need to be another reason why?”

“Well … actually Frida … if there _was_ …”

“What if there was?”

“Well … you know … if somebody put him up to it …” Trish hinted. “And we know the _only_ students he listens to …”

“Really, Trish?” Sybilla rolled her eyes. “Don’t you remember how it worked out the last time you tried to pin something on those idiot Gryffindors?”

“We didn’t try to pin anything on them! I mean—we just told Professor Yaxley that we thought it was them! It’s not like we—I don’t know—set the puppet show up ourselves and then tried to blame it on them! We didn’t even _lie_!” Trish huffed.

“Oh, _Merlin_ , Trish, don’t say that anywhere other than here,” Frida said.

“What? I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true!”

“Yes,” Cornelia replied. “But how many people outside this room are likely to believe that?”

For a moment, there was sweet, blessed silence. Vivianne actually was able to read a couple of sentences.

Then Trish stuck her head around the screen, eyes wide and jaw hanging open. “People—people think _we_ set up the puppet show?”

“Well, you have to admit, it would be a clever scheme to take those idiot Gryffindors down a peg or two,” Cornelia said.

“But—but _we_ were the ones the puppet show made fun of!”

“Which is part of why no one with half a brain would think you were ultimately behind it,” Sybilla replied. “That being said, you’d be amazed at how many people can get along with less than half of a brain.”

Vivianne snickered, while Belle sighed. “Sybilla! That is _not_ nice.”

“But you can’t deny that it’s true,” Cornelia cackled. “Though why do you two care about pinning this nonsense on the idiot Gryffindors, anyway? You got pranked by Peeves. So what? It happens to bloody everyone.”

“He even got Sybilla and me in third year,” Vivianne said.

“And he learned his lesson after that,” Sybilla said.

“So what’s the big problem?” asked Cornelia. “It’s embarrassing, but everyone will forget about it when Peeves pulls another stunt or the idiot Gryffindors steal another professor’s pants.”

Nothing but the rustle of cloth came from behind the screens.

Cornelia, Belle, Sybilla, and Vivianne exchanged slow glances. Belle was the first to speak. “Frida … Trish … what were the two of you doing when Peeves pranked you?”

“Nothing!” Frida snapped.

“We just found a stupid little Ravenclaw Mudblood with some—Muggle—thing,” Trish said. “All we were going to do was give it to James to give it to Professor Yaxley. You know. It’s a _Muggle_ thing; it could be _dangerous_.”

“But the _half-blood_ showed up, and she had to try to be a hero.”

There was only one person Frida would call _the half-blood_ in tones dripping so much scorn.

Vivianne sat up. Her heart was pounding, just as it had been in that bathroom last June. “Frida. What did you _do_?”

Her voice was harder than she meant it to be. She didn’t care.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Vivianne! What do _you_ care?” Frida snapped back.

“Of course we care!” Belle gasped. “Besides the fact that you almost killed that poor girl—”

“That poor girl?” Trish scoffed.

“She is a poor girl! Even Vivianne must think so, and it’s _her_ family that the girl has hurt! Anyway! Even if almost killing her wasn’t bad enough, it’s because of that stunt that we came in last place in the House Cup last year!” Belle fired back. “Do you have any idea how hard James and the rest of the Quidditch team worked to get us all those points? And that’s not even getting into how hard everyone else worked throughout the year. And _you_ wreck it all with ten minutes of temper!”

“Temper? Do you have any idea what that stupid little bitch said about _my father_?” Frida stuck her head around the screen, lips pulled back in a snarl.

“Nothing that wasn’t true,” Vivianne said to her magazine – but more than loud enough to be heard.

A gasp from behind the screen. “Vivianne! How can you say—”

“I believe we had this conversation last June,” Vivianne replied, deliberately turning a page even though she hadn’t read a word that was on it. “And I believe that my answer is the same. As far as a Muggle father being better than a Death Eater father, well, my grandfather – the only father figure _I_ ever had – was murdered by Death Eaters, so you can imagine where Death Eaters fall in my estimation.”

“He was an Auror—” Frida tried to protest.

“It’s. Still. Murder,” Vivianne interrupted. “And if you want to get very well acquainted with the subject of murder, Frida, I suggest you try that line of reasoning on my grandmother.”

There was silence behind the screen.

Vivianne allowed herself a flicker of a smirk. “As for the subject of absent fathers versus Muggle fathers … I do not think you want me to repeat what I said last June, because I believe that did cut very near to the bone.

“However,” she flipped the next page of the magazine, “if you are not dressed and _gone_ from this room in two minutes, Frida, Trish, I think I will have to repeat that. Have I made myself clear?”

There was a loud clicking noise. Vivianne looked at the next bed to see Sybilla rather obviously fiddling with her watch.

By Vivianne’s count, Trisha and Frida were dressed, dried, and slinking out of the room in less than ninety seconds.

All four of the other girls watched them go and very deliberately watched the door click shut behind them.

Belle was the first to speak. “We have to rein them in. They—no, _Frida_ is getting out of control.”

“Belle, they’re useful,” Cornelia said. “Nobody else can keep the other students in line like those two.”

“By putting them in the _hospital wing_?” Belle asked. “This has gone too far! It went too far last June! We should have cut them off then!”

“They—” Cornelia hesitated. “Frida made a mistake.”

“Which she seems likely to repeat at the first opportunity,” Belle fired back.

“I agree,” Vivianne said.

Cornelia and Belle turned to Vivianne, Cornelia with her eyes wide and Belle with a look of relief. “ _Vivianne_!” Cornelia gasped. “Oh, come on! They’re fighting _your_ bloody battle!”

“No,” Vivianne snapped, “no, they most certainly are not. _Nobody’s_ going to mistake that cringing half-blood chit for a Gorlois woman. They don’t need to rub it in, and they certainly don’t need to land her in the hospital wing and lose half our house points in the process. They have gone far enough, and they need to be pulled back.”

“So … how?” asked Belle.

Vivianne pursed her lips together and thought.

She finally forced herself to shrug. “Admittedly – I don’t know yet. But I’m sure I’ll think of something. And if all else fails,” she looked back at her magazine, brushing some hair from her eyes as if she hadn’t a care in the world, “Sybilla can always transfigure them into some appropriate animals and set them loose on the grounds for a while.”

“A few months as toads would do them good,” Sybilla agreed.

And that, it seemed, was that—at least for the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're starting off the week on a good note - no flaking! Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and we'll see you all on Tuesday.


	17. Chapter 16: Someday My Prince Will Come

**Chapter 16: Someday My Prince Will Come**

“You know …” Rowan said, shooting Ben a sidelong look. “I n-n-never d-did thank you—for the other d-day.”

“Whatever do you mean, sweetheart?” Ben looked at the knife he had just finished buffing with sandpaper.

“I’m p-p-pretty sure you know w-what I mean.” Rowan blushed but continued to watch him steadily. “Peeves d-didn’t do that p-prank alone—and I’d bet you t-twenty galleons that the c-c-copy of ‘Hotel California’ that p-played came off _your_ s-s-spellpod.”

“Ah. Well, I don’t bet money I don’t got—so I’ll pass.” Ben grinned at her. “You done with your knife, honey?”

“Yeah, h-here.” She floated it over to him. Due to the unknown nature of so much of what they were working with, they were supposed to treat all the tools with several solutions that would counteract any lingering magical or mundane effects from the plants they were working with. The downside to the solutions was they could dull just about any blade, so they had to be sharpened, buffed, and polished daily to keep the edges from completely disappearing.

Ben tended to do his and Rowan’s, not because Rowan couldn’t handle a knife – she could; he’d seen her do so. But like many people who were prone to being clumsy, she was extremely _careful_ with her blades, and that meant she was slower with them.

On the other hand, Ben had been doing his own blade maintenance since he’d gotten his first pocket knife for Cub Scouts, back in the time he barely remembered when he still lived with his grandparents. He’d gotten to the point where he could be both careful and very quick, which meant that if he did Rowan’s blade maintenance, they could finish most things up.

Rowan took care of packing up the plants, labeling them, finishing the report scrolls. It all worked out.

“Besides, I still owe you.”

“Yeah, yeah you d-d-do,” Rowan teased.

With the nights coming earlier and earlier, the Ministry had installed some light-sensitive candles, set to light themselves when the ambient light level got below a certain point; right now, it was still light enough for most of class that those candles were more or less a “class will be ending soon” warning. Lipskit would probably be along in a few minutes to tell them to report to the courtyard – or not – sometimes he didn’t. There was something about the ruins that frequently distracted the Gryffindor head of house, and he spent more of class watching for signs of whatever that thing was – nobody knew exactly what Lipskit was stalking – than he did watching the students.

Rowan sighed and picked her quill up, filling in the report scrolls. There wasn’t much to fill in; mostly it was just check boxes. Did the cutting respond to acid? Did the cutting respond to base? Did the cutting respond to heat? That sort of thing. As Ben lifted the blade to check the edge, he caught Rowan’s reflection in it. She was mostly looking at the paper, occasionally tapping her quill. Then he noticed that she glanced up and over at him, still in the blade’s reflection, before dropping her eyes back to the parchment in front of her.

Ben had just finished the last bit of buffing on the blade, sliding it back into its protective sheath and back into the bag, when he noticed how dark it was outside of the circle of light made by the candles.

“You done? We should be—not just going, gone,” Ben asked.

“Uh, yeah, yeah, I am,” Rowan said, screwing the lid back on her ink pot and tossing it in her bag; she really didn’t have much of a future in the WNBA, between her height and the fact that the ink pot went flying over the bag, off a flask of water, and down onto the floor between the legs of a table.

She sighed resignedly and crawled under the table, cracking her head on it once if the muffled thump and the sharp “Crap!” were any indication at all.

She came back out, holding the ink pot with a disgusted look on her face.

“Rowan—wait, look out!” Ben exclaimed—as she stepped right into the puddle of water from the flask, and with the ruins being floored mostly in marble, of course it was _slick_ when wet.

Ben’s warning came too late, because her lead foot shot straight out in front of her and she collapsed onto her remaining foot. She resolutely climbed to her feet – only to exclaim in pain when she tried to put weight onto the leg she had fallen on and collapse back toward the table. Ben caught her before she could fall a second time, and she slid up onto the table and looked – somewhat sourly – at her ankle.

“What’s wrong?” Ben asked looking between her face and the ankle she had stretched out in front of her.

“Sprain—maybe—probably just twisted.” She took her wand out of her pocket.

“Rowan, you did hear Lipskit say he’d gut any student who attempted spell-based first aid on themselves, didn’t you?” Ben reminded her.

“W-when you f-fall over as m-much as-as I d-do, you know how t-to treat a sprained ankle.”

“Still, I didn’t make a deal with Peeves to save you from Frida only to lose you to a gutting by Lipskit. Who else am I gonna get to check my boring little checkboxes while I get to play with knives?” Ben teased.

“It’s an easy s-spell—I c-could t-teach you.”

“I like my guts where they are too, thanks anyway. I think it’s probably best to get you out to … whatever instructor is on ‘waiting for stragglers’ duty. Though, I promise if it’s Monsieur Bellerose, you _can_ teach me that spell.”

Rowan giggled, probably at his really bad Lumiere impression that went with the last sentence. But then she looked solemn.

“B-but how am I g-going to get out t-to where t-the t-t-teacher is?” Rowan looked at her ankle. Ben tossed her bookbag over his shoulder, then his own.

“I got it,” Ben told her. “Here, put your arm up on my shoulder.” Rowan stared at him—but, hand trembling slightly, did as he asked. “Grab hold of my other shoulder with your other hand.” Her arms more or less looped around his neck, he slid one arm under her legs, the other was braced around her back and lifted her easily off the table.

Rowan gasped, sharply, almost seeming to hold her breath as he walked toward the doorway.

* * *

Rowan clutched at Ben’s shoulders, all too aware of just how far away the floor was, her heart hammering in her chest. She told herself that was why she was clinging to him, and she wasn’t even lying.

At least … not at first.

_Oh … bugger._

“You can relax, you know,” Ben said, effortlessly shifting her. “I’m not gonna drop you.”

“Are y-y-you—I m-m-m-mean—”

“Relax. I’ve lifted bales o’ hay heavier than you,” Ben replied. “To say nothin’ of Desi.”

_Desi._ Ben certainly brought up his cousin often, often enough that Rowan recognized her name. Desi the feminist. Desi the cousin who wasn’t interested in sports. And now Desi the cousin Ben sometimes had to carry around.

“D-d-do you h-have to d-d-do that a—” Rowan broke off with a gasp as they moved from the mirror-smooth marble to the flagstones of the courtyard.

“A lot?” Ben finished for her. He shrugged. For some reason the motion made butterflies explode in Rowan’s stomach. She knew she was going red – very red – but …

_When is the next time you’re going to get some boy to carry you around like this? Enjoy it, Rowan!_

_… Especially since Ben’s probably not going to be doing it again …_

She swallowed and nodded, not trusting what would come out if she tried to speak.

“Not too often. Jest when she’s too plastered to make it from wherever the party’s at to the truck an’ from the truck to the house. So – maybe a couple o’ times this summer an’ last summer.”

“Oh,” Rowan murmured. “You—g-g-go to p-p-parties often together?” She didn’t know why she was asking, except that it was something to say, and it was a distraction. That, and she didn’t go to any parties where people would get plastered with her cousins – not her twelve cousins on her dad’s side, and certainly not Vivianne.

Ben just snorted. “She likes to make me the DD. Ever since I got my permit.”

“Oh.” Rowan glanced at the ground—and immediately regretted it. “You—um—live c-c-close, then?”

Ben seemed to slow.

Rowan looked up. Ben wasn’t meeting her eyes.

Until he did. And part of Rowan jumped when it happened. She’d never – quite – noticed that unique mix of green and gray before, though Merlin knew she had noticed how they could focus, make her feel like she was the only thing that had Ben’s attention or was worthy of it at that moment in time.

They were doing that now. And Ben was smiling. But it was a small smile, a tight smile, and it stopped somewhere before his nose. Not a real smile at all.

“Not close, Rowan. With. My parents died when I was a baby—so I live with my aunt an’ uncle.” He hesitated. “At least, that’s the short version.”

Rowan gasped. “Oh—oh my—M-M-Merlin—B-B-Ben, I n-n-no idea—”

“Not many people do,” Ben replied, shrugging again. This time it wasn’t nearly as thrilling.

“B-b-b-but—” Rowan started.

Ben raised an eyebrow. There was a smile poking at the corner of his lip, and this one almost—but not quite—made it to his eyes.

And Rowan realized she had no idea what to say. _But they should_ , while encapsulating what she thought, was a rather stupid answer. It didn’t quite say everything she was thinking and feeling. That in a class as small as theirs, this shouldn’t be the first time she was hearing about this. Didn’t just about everyone know that Quill had lost his parents, too, and that he lived with his sister? That maybe if more people knew, certain people – Frida and Trish – wouldn’t be such jerks about … everything. She remembered how Trish and Frida had _smiled_ when it looked like Ben would get kicked out of the archaeology class—

Then again, they knew that Quill had lost his parents, too, and that never stopped them from calling him a filthy Mudblood or worse when the mood took them. There was probably no helping some people.

So Rowan swallowed and shrugged. She doubted Ben would ever find it anywhere near as exciting as she found his shrugs. “Thanks f-f-for t-t-telling m-m-me, then.”

Ben didn’t answer. But he did smile. And in that moment, a real smile was more than enough.

Of course that moment couldn’t last.

“Mademoiselle O’Blake!” came a wholly familiar and wholly unwelcome voice. Rowan forced back a groan. “And—Monsieur Moore. What has happened? Quick, put her down, put her down!”

“Can you teach me that spell in thirty seconds?” Ben whispered. His mouth was awfully close to her ear, causing tickles and more than tickles. Rowan had to bite down on the giggles.

“Would be f-f-faster just to d-d-do it,” Rowan whispered back.

“An’ I still don’t want you gettin’ gutted. On to Plan B, then.” Ben shifted Rowan so that she was – somehow – even more secure in his hold than she already was. “Let me jest get her out to the courtyard, sir, an’ then one o’ the teachers can have a look at her ankle.”

“She hurt her ankle?” Mr. Bellerose looked at it. “Here, allow me—”

“N-n-n-no thank you, s-s-sir!” Rowan said, trying to maneuver her ankle away from Mr. Bellerose without losing her balance—or kicking Ben. “One—one of my m-m-mum’s f-f-friends t-t-told me to n-n-never let anyone b-b-but a t-t-trained p-p-professional t-t-treat injuries like th-th-this—he once h-h-had s-s-someone t-t-try to t-t-treat his b-b-broken arm—and they v-v-vanished all of the b-b-b-bones.”

Ben’s eyes narrowed and his forehead crinkled. Rowan bit her lip; she wouldn’t be surprised if Ben had heard that story – she suspected that stories of Harry Potter haunted Gryffindor Tower with ten times the force that they haunted Ravenclaw Tower – but the last thing any of them needed was for Ben to realize that was whom she was talking about. People tended to react strongly when they realized just who this “friend of Rowan’s mum” was.

“Still, Monsieur Moore, you do not need to carry her. You can create a walking stick—all kinds of things,” Mr. Bellerose clucked. “You really should put her down.”

“Nope. Can’t,” Ben replied. It was definitely not Rowan’s imagination that he was walking just a little bit faster.

“And why is that?” asked Mr. Bellerose.

Rowan had no idea where Ben’s answer came from, because to her ears, it didn’t sound much like an answer at all. “Uncle Chester.”

“I beg your— _who_?”

“My uncle. Chester.” Ben turned to Mr. Bellerose with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t know what they teach y’all in France, Mr. Bellerose—but where I come from, as my Uncle Chester points out, when a lady can’t walk, you carry her until you get somewhere they can help her. An’ if you don’t, well, then Uncle Chester’ll make sure you don’t make that mistake again.”

Mr. Bellerose glared at Ben. Then, with a huff, he threw his hands into the air. “Fine! Have it your way, Monsieur Moore. I will tell the professors that you two are coming.” He stalked off, hands shoved in his pockets and hunched shoulders radiating exasperation.

Rowan watched him go, then, when she judged he was out of earshot, she looked back at Ben. “Is—is that w-w-why …?”

“Is Uncle Chester why I’m carryin’ you?” Ben asked. “Hell naw.”

And then he winked. “But we can tell everyone that, if that’s what you want.”

Rowan couldn’t even laugh. She just smiled.

Because for the space of that wink, she felt hope. And it was too strong for even Rowan to tell herself just how silly she was being.

* * *

“I don’ know ter tell yeh, Leo.” Hagrid said, leaning back in his chair causing it to groan as he drained his glass. “I haven’ seen nothin’.”

“I figured.” Leo drained his own glass. “This is bloody pissing me off.”

“Uh-oh.” The half-giant held up the bottle of firewhisky inquiringly. Leo nodded before quirking an eyebrow. “Jest, the on’y person I wanna hear ‘This is bloody pissin’ me off’ from less than yeh is Harry.”

“Oh, I dunno – I imagine Sybilla Cromwell would be damned close if not scarier than me,” Leo demurred, slouched down, looking at the top of his shoes. A lot of Leo’s contemporaries groused constantly about the progress in the wizarding world. The way the Muggle and Muggle-born ways had usurped the wizarding ways. Some of them, like Rove, clung tightly to wizarding fashion as a way to counteract this.

As far as Leo was concerned, when they could start wearing trousers to work was one of the best days of his life. Maybe Dumbledore could wear long brocade wizarding robes and high heeled boots—but Lipskit would prefer that his pants remained unseen by the student body.

“But I wouldn’ hea’ Sybilla _say_ summat. I’d jest see the aftermath,” Hagrid pointed out.

“Point,” Leo conceded. Sybilla was rather like a sniper in that respect. No one ever saw her aim; they just saw the path of destruction left in the wake of the bullet. The thought remained even if Leo was well aware of how Aurelia would have responded to him even _thinking_ of her daughter in Muggle terms like that. She had been at Hogwarts his final couple years of school, and he knew her reputation well – at least the things that she wouldn’t have grown out of.

Of course, few of his students would have believed he’d gone to school at the same time as anyone’s parents; he was rather the archetype of “old” after all.

“Anything I should know about?” Leo asked. He was technically the head of the department, even though Hagrid had been at Hogwarts longer than he had and had been teaching Care of Magical Creatures longer.

“Do yeh know what the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog is?” Hagrid asked.

“Nothing you have to worry about in class; it’s a gag from a Muggle movie.” Leo snorted.

“Someone asked if Flobberworms were like them.” Hagrid stroked his beard.

“Not so as I’ve noticed. Basically, it means something that seems harmless but is actually deadly, if that helps.”

Hagrid nodded and started to open his mouth, perhaps to ask another question, when the door boomed open. For half a second the intruder was backlit by sunlight – which had the added benefit of taking his citron robes and making them _almost_ not eye-searing.

“What is that creature?!” Rove tried to boom as Leo lazily lolled his head in the direction of the odious little headmaster.

“What creature?” Leo asked.

“If I knew what creature, I would not be asking!” Rove fumed.

“Oh, then it’s the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog.” Leo hid his smirk in his glass.

“And what is _this_? Is that _firewhisky_?!” He planted his hands on his hips and glared with all the harshness of a Crup getting a belly rub.

“This is a department meeting,” Leo said. “And yes, I do believe it _is_ firewhisky.” He looked blandly at his cup and then the label on the bottle with a show of interest.

“A _department meeting_?” Rove repeated incredulously.

“Yup. So where were we?” Leo turned back to Hagrid.

“Flobberworms,” Hagrid said.

“Right—do I need to order more?” It was probably better for the whole department if Leo was more or less in charge of requisitions; for one, if Leo suggested that a type of creature was not necessarily suitable for class, Hagrid usually listened. And he could do so – unlike Rove – without embarrassing or pissing him off.

“They’re doin’ well,” Hagrid said proudly.

“Good,” Leo said before Rove could say anything.

“This is a farce!” Rove exclaimed.

Leo bit his tongue on the “well, you’d know on that front if anyone would” that was springing up and down on the tongue like a kid preparing to dive off a diving board. Gen Lipskit hadn’t raised any fools, after all.

“You can handle your staff meetings your way. This way works for us,” Leo said instead. “This creature that you’re asking about—?” Leo gestured, hoping for some details.

“Something is watching me!” Rove said it with all the offended primness of a preteen girl finding out that boys were spying on her getting dressed.

“What sort of something?” Leo asked.

“I don’t know—I haven’t seen it—so whatever _he_ let loose …” Rove flung a finger in Hagrid’s direction. The half-giant reared back slightly. That and the expression on Hagrid’s face sold Lipskit on knowing that whatever this thing was, it wasn’t some new creature of Hagrid’s he’d let loose. It – however – could have been what was playing games with Lipskit in the ruins.

“Have you let anything loose?” Leo asked. Hagrid’s black eyes fixed on Leo’s face, and with minimal facial movement, he tried to tell the gamekeeper that he was asking for Rove’s benefit, not because he actually believed that Hagrid had done anything.

“No.” Hagrid took a long drink of whisky as Rove sputtered.

“There is something—and I know that Hagrid is _not_ responsible. It’s lurking around the ruins.”

“How did it get there if he didn’t let it loose?” Rove asked.

Leo put up a hand toward Hagrid; he’d promised McGonagall when she retired that as long as he and Hagrid were both at Hogwarts, he’d keep an eye on him. Rove, like many people who didn’t use what intelligence they had – however much that might be – tended to leap to the first obvious conclusion. It was sloppy and it pissed Leo off, but as much as he’d like to see Rove transfigured into something, he couldn’t let Hagrid do it.

“How did we have a set of ruins appear in the forest after years and years of that being an empty meadow?” Leo shot back. “We obviously don’t know everything about this forest—and there are some people with vested interest in keeping it that way. I was planning on talking to the centaurs, and if I don’t get anything out of them,” which privately he was pretty sure he wouldn’t, “I’ll call in some favors with some experts I know.”

Rove scowled, but even he (occasionally) knew when his feet had been kicked out from under him – sometimes even before he landed on his chin.

“As for firewhisky at department meetings …” Rove began.

“It doesn’t break any rules—nor can you instate any, not without getting rid of that very extensive and expensive wine collection of yours,” Leo reminded him.

“Just find out what that thing is!” Rove stormed off.

Leo waved his wand at the door –which Rove had left open – and it shut itself.

“Top me off? And what about your fifth-years?”

Hagrid smiled and unstoppered the bottle.

* * *

The tearoom on the first floor of the British Museum of Magic and Arcana had few advantages. First of all, most researchers considered the tea to be truly terrible, the sort of thing that was only palatable after several all-nighters among the archives, when they couldn’t remember when the last time they had eaten or drunk anything. What pastries and sandwiches were present were not any better, and those in the know knew better than to ask about the scones. And whoever had created it had set up stiff chairs and benches throughout the room, hardly comfortable and a far cry from the cozy couches and soft chairs that furnished many other tearooms and coffee shops in the area.

But the one good thing about the place was that it was discreet. The only people who ate here were truly desperate researchers and occasionally the odd spouse/parent/other relation who was trying to force a researcher to take sustenance. Nobody gossiped about whom they saw here, or whom they saw eating with whom. That made it the perfect place to meet someone if you didn’t want word getting around that you had, in fact, met them.

Aqua Yaxley, nee Vaisey, took a sip of her tea and made a face. “I don’t understand why you come here, Igraine. I know you’re always up to your elbows in research, but _really_. It’s not like you can’t Apparate to someplace better.”

Igraine Gorlois smiled slightly as she sipped her own tea. Years ago, she and the staff of the tea shop had come to an understanding. She would order a tea and pay the full price for it. They would give her a cup of hot water. Igraine would put one of her own teabags into it. It was the perfect arrangement for all involved. “It … has its uses.” She put her teacup down and raised her eyebrow at Aqua. “Still, I do wish to thank you for meeting me here. You understand, discretion is imperative.”

“It always is with you, Igraine,” Aqua said, rolling her eyes. “I take it this is about Vivianne, then?” She took another sip of her tea, trying to look innocent and failing. “Rosie told me all about her little … trouble.”

Aqua looked much like her daughter in that moment – especially since she was trying to be sneaky. Tearose might have the dark Gorlois hair and emerald eyes, but in features and general silliness, she was her mother’s daughter all the way through.

However, Aqua had her uses, not least of which was the fact that she could be a trusted intermediary between Igraine and her brother, Victor. And intermediaries were necessary, since Igraine and Victor had not spoken to each other in a decade. Victor had not been pleased that Igraine had thrown her support and that of the Gorlois clan with the Mudbloods and blood-traitors during the late wizarding war. As for Igraine, she had not been pleased that Victor had thrown his support with the murderers and the raging megalomaniacs – to say nothing of the fact that Victor’s best friend and their cousin, Brutus Yaxley, had been the one who murdered her husband.

“Apologizing” and “making amends” did not come easily to Gorloises and those with Gorlois blood, so in all probability, Aqua would be running messages between the two of them until one of them died. Or until Victor finally admitted what an ass he’d been.

Still, Igraine sighed. For once she hadn’t come here to send a message to her brother, or to try to pump Aqua for information about what he was up to now. No, for once she didn’t give a damn about Victor or his friends with the disgusting tattoo on their arms.

For once, she wanted to see Aqua for Aqua’s sake.

The last letter Igraine had received from Vivianne had included a charcoal rubbing of one rune she could recognize but not identify. Igraine had known it immediately, and it had made several things fall into place in her head very quickly. She’d spent days in the archives and libraries of the Museum since then, but not in her usual haunts. No, instead of the record-books and history sections, she’d been up to her elbows in spell books and tomes of protective enchantments. She still didn’t know if she had found anything useful. But she had found nothing to _disprove_ her theory, and that was equal parts gratifying and worrying.

Very worrying. Because if she was right …

Igraine took a deep breath. She had known Aqua would ask about Vivianne. She had already prepared her story. “No, thank Merlin. She’s not had any further troubles since then. I expect her friend Sybilla Cromwell let everyone know just what someone who tried to dose Vivianne would have to expect, and since then, the students had been behaving themselves quite well.”

“You mean Achilles and Aurelia Cromwell’s daughter?” asked Aqua, making a face. “Rosie has talked about her, too. I swear, the Carrow has come out quite … _strongly_ in that girl.”

“Oh, I don’t believe so at all – at least, assuming we’re talking about the same Carrows,” Igraine replied. “But the Carrows who were followers of the Dark Lord – they were vicious thugs, no more, no less. Their talent for the Dark Arts came from the fact that their minds were dark, twisted little sewers. I doubt they would have shown half so much aptitude for any truly difficult branch of magic.” Igraine shrugged casually and took another sip of her tea.

Aqua blinked, but she rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Whatever you say, Igraine. But if this isn’t about Vivianne and her little episode, what is it about?”

Igraine replied with a very tight smile. “I actually wanted to pick your brain about something you know much more about than I do.” She sipped her tea. “The Arthurian legend.”

Aqua laughed. “Really? Are you joking? The direct female-line descendent of Morgan le Fay herself, the woman who has probably actual documents from that time in her library, for all that she won’t let anyone else near them – you’re asking _me_ about the Arthurian legend?”

“Yes, Aqua. Because you know far more about _the legend_ than I do,” Igraine answered. “And – for the sake of argument – even if I _do_ have original documents – or copies of original documents – or even copies of copies of original documents – remember who their likely author was.” Igraine raised her eyebrows. “I believe that Morgan’s impatience with and indeed disdain for ‘boys and their toys’ is itself the stuff of legend.”

“Well, that’s certainly true,” Aqua agreed. “So … what do you want to know?”

She could not just ask straight out what she was looking for. _That_ would tip Aqua off, or at least make her suspicious. But Igraine had carefully plotted her attack, and she stuck to that plan now. “To begin, I would like to learn a bit more about … geography.”

Aqua sat up, gasping. “The ruins! You think the ruins they found by Hogwarts have something to do with Arthur! Oh, I _knew_ it!” If Aqua hadn’t been in public, Igraine was certain she would have squealed and clapped her hands.

“Except, of course, that hypothesis makes no sense at all,” Igraine pointed out. “We know very well that Arthur’s network didn’t extend all the way to Scotland, certainly not the Highlands. That area was never conquered by the Romans; he would have had no business being there.”

“Yes, but, there’s so much we _don’t_ know,” Aqua replied. “I mean—it’s not like he was a Muggle! If he had reason to go to Scotland, he could have Apparated there and gotten back in a wink!”

“True,” Igraine agreed, largely because it was true.

“And you know,” Aqua went on, “there have been legends circulating for years that the Black Lake outside Hogwarts is where Arthur got his sword – the one the Lady of the Lake gave to him. If—the ruins could be the temple of the Lady of the Lake!” Aqua grinned. “Oh, Igraine, could you _imagine_ if that were true! How much we could learn about her! We know that she was important, we know that Arthur loved her and that everything fell apart after her death – but if the ruins by Hogwarts are her temple or even her home …”

Aqua’s eyes were shining. Igraine smiled back slightly.

“However … that does raise the question of why the ruins appeared _now_ …” Aqua leaned back in her chair, frowning.

“It does indeed,” Igraine agreed.

“Unless there was some kind of protection, maybe a blood protection, that expired …” Aqua mused.

_… Blood protection?_

“Because, you know, after her death – _everyone_ would want to have found her temple. Who knows what kind of magical artifacts or spell books she would have there?” Aqua went on. “But no protection can last forever. It just can’t.  If it expired now … well, there’s no other explanation needed.”

“No,” Igraine mused. “No, there is not.”

_… Protection …_

Her heart was pounding, and there was something—something like fear churning in her stomach. But not for herself, or for Morgause or even Vivianne. They all had the protections of the Gorlois clan.

But there were two people in the vicinity of the ruins who did not. And the Lady of the Lake was not the only one who could have hidden priceless artifacts in a castle in Scotland or warded them with the most powerful protections she knew.

Igraine took a deep breath and took a long, musing sip of her tea. She had what she wanted from Aqua. But Aqua could not know that – or be allowed to guess. Because if she was right …

“But what about all the stories that put Sir Mordred and Lady Morgause in the Lothian area?” Igraine asked.

“Lothian is the Lowlands, not the Highlands!” Aqua dismissed.

“Oh, certainly, but we’re talking about fifteen hundred years,” Igraine agreed. “Who knows how much can get mixed up in fifteen hundred years?”

So Igraine kept Aqua talking, kept leading her up the garden path. Aqua, for all that she was a compendium of facts about the Arthurian legend, was not the brightest candle in the box. If she kept her distracted … well, then, what Aqua didn’t guess couldn’t hurt her.

Or anyone Igraine cared about.


	18. Chapter 17: A Funny Thing Happened

**Chapter 17: A Funny Thing Happened**

It was just a plain bit of parchment, pinned to the board in the corner of Gryffindor tower that saw fliers about lost cat toys and study groups and – this being Gryffindor – comics about Slytherin, Harry Potter, and the occasional bra or pair of undies. It was remarkable only for the size of the paper (uniform and not ripped on the edge or with someone’s notes on the back) – and the fact that it had Lipskit’s spare, yet authoritative hand on it.

The effect it had on Gryffindor tower, however, was like turning a hose onto a bunch of cats: everyone lost their bloody minds.

From the moment Ben, battered and exhausted from helping two of the professors refurbish an old classroom for a new study lounge for his last detention – for the moment, anyway – stepped into Gryffindor tower, he knew about the paper and what was on it, even if no one specifically told him. The scramble of humanity told him all he needed to know.

“Hogsmeade?” Ben flopped onto the sofa not far from where his friends were, carefully stretching his neck by inches to one side until it popped. This had been worse than dosing cattle.

“Don’t move, Kenny!” Donna said warningly. “I need your face right here for my sketch.”

“Just draw a big circle, two littler circles, an oval around the two smaller circles, and two dots in the smaller circles, and color the larger circle orange. You drew Kenny.” Ben smirked.

“ _What_?” Carrie asked from under Ringo’s arm.

“Cartoon character from a Muggle television show,” Ben told her. “He died a lot.”

“Yes, Hogsmeade – and all the wonderful status and date scrambling that goes with it.” Cameron smirked at Selena, who shoved him off the sofa. For Cameron’s part, he didn’t even grimace, just propped his arms up on the sofa and looked adoringly at Selena’s rear end.

“So, I’m guessing y’all are locked into plans unless something goes massively wrong.” Ben continued to stretch his protesting muscles.

“Seem to be,” Selena said, grabbing Cameron by the arm and dragging him back up onto the sofa. “What about you, Ben? Has any lovely lady captured the heart of our stoic cowboy?”

Ben was quiet for a long moment, thinking – well, less thinking and more shoving surfacing thoughts back down into the steam of thought.

“Ben?” Selena asked softly.

“Oh, just enjoying a river cruise of the pyramids, darlin’.” Ben shook his head. Then he vowed to stop that because his neck really hadn’t liked that much.

“Huh?” Carrie asked. “And yes, I can do more than ask one word questions; don’t be a smartass, Ringo.”

“Me?” Ringo shifted his face into some horrid, big-eyed caricature of innocence. “Would I be a smartass to you, my little sugar biscuit?”

“So who else is already hoping for a swift break-up?” Cameron muttered, getting black looks and an elbow directly in the solar plexus from Selena.

“Be nice, Cam. You haven’t forgotten how to be nice, have you?”

“Very nearly, but not quite.” Cameron stretched his legs out in front of him and looked back up at the ceiling, hands laced together behind his head. Selena sighed, curling up against Cameron’s side and rested her head against his chest over his heart.

“Denial, it’s not just a river in Egypt.” Ben shrugged.

“So there _is_ a girl.” Ringo grinned.

“No—no, there’s not really.” Ben shook his head. “There’s an idea of one that exists in the same space as my parents, but there’s not a girl.”

* * *

“There’s a good featherhead,” Rowan said, stroking Darwin’s breast. The barn owl preened and puffed himself up, leaning into her touch. He was always a sucker for attention, especially when he got to lord the fact that _he_ was getting some over all the other owls in the Owlery. “Care to bring a letter to Mum?”

Darwin’s eyes popped open and he shot her baleful stare.

“Oh, come _on_. It’s what, a five-minute flight? It’s not like I’m asking you to fly all the way to Dad in London.” Rowan tapped Darwin’s beak. “Put me on a broom and I could probably do it faster than you.”

Now Darwin’s stare turned mulish as well as baleful.

“But I can’t, because I’d get in trouble. So that leaves you.” She tickled Darwin’s breast again. “Come on. If you leave now, you can probably manage to torment Jack some before Mum gets home.”

Darwin perked up with a soft hoot.

“But not too much,” Rowan warned. “You’ve got an unfair advantage, you know. It’s not sporting.”

Darwin flapped his wings, as if to protest that merely being able to fly wasn’t _that_ great of an advantage.

“Not just that, featherhead. You’re a lot smarter than any Crup I’ve ever met.”

Darwin hooted again, and if Rowan wasn’t afraid it would mean that she was losing her mind, she would have said it sounded like a chuckle.

“Good boy. Come on now, off you go.” She tied the letter onto Darwin’s leg and brought him over to one of the glassless windows. Lifting her arm, she hoisted him into the air. Darwin took off, winging his way north to Hogsmeade through the encroaching twilight.

Rowan leaned her elbows on the windowsill, taking a deep breath (safe, since she was now upwind of the owl droppings and pellets) and watching as Darwin grew smaller and smaller. Once Darwin came back for breakfast, she would know her Hogsmeade plans were taken care of. Her mother never missed an opportunity to meet up with her; ever since she was in her third year, they had spent at least part of every Hogsmeade weekend together.

And it was nice. While everyone else was scrambling to find dates and finalize plans with friends, Rowan didn’t have to worry. She didn’t have to try to find a date or worry about rejection. Her plans were set.

Though she did wish …

_No. He’d probably have detention anyway. And even if he didn’t, why would he want to go to Hogsmeade with me?_

Rowan took a deep breath, closed her eyes and shook her head. It would be fun. She’d have a good time; she knew she would. And … there were some things she wanted to talk to her mother about. Some things she didn’t want to put into a letter.

“Mademoiselle O’Blake?”

Rowan’s eyes popped open.

She spun on her heel, suddenly acutely aware that the only thing behind her was a window. “M-M-Mr. B-B-Bellerose,” Rowan stammered. “W-w-what—w-w-why are you h-here?”

He was standing between her and the door. And nobody else was in the Owlery. Rowan gulped.

But Mr. Bellerose made no move to come closer to her. He simply smiled, the dim light catching the reddest streaks in his auburn hair and making them glow. “I have a letter to send – that is all. And as the owl office in town is closed for the day, your Professor Rove is kind enough to let us researchers use the Owlery here.” He turned away from Rowan slightly, looking up at the many owls on their perches and hidden in their alcoves. “Have you any suggestions, Mademoiselle O’Blake?”

“N-n-no,” Rowan said.

“No?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“I h-h-have m-m-my own owl.”

“Ah. Well, is he here? I should love to meet him – or her.”

Rowan shook her head, and not trusting herself to speak, jerked her thumb at the window.

“I see,” Mr. Bellerose replied. He turned back to the owls on their perches.

Rowan took a deep breath and slowly, slowly edged forward. If she could just get on the right side, where the door was—

A pellet cracked under her foot, the sound of crunching bones filling the tower room. Mr. Bellerose looked up. “Leaving?” he asked.

Rowan nodded. “H-h-homework. It w-w-was—th-that is—I’ll s-s-s-see you—”

“Mademoiselle O’Blake, wait.” Mr. Bellerose closed some – not all – of the distance between himself and Rowan. There was still enough space that Rowan wasn’t backing up to the wall again. But he was also between her and the door.

“You do not have to be so nervous around me, you know,” he said, something like a twinkle in his eyes. But it was a cold twinkle, the glint of a diamond, not the cheerful hello of a distant star. “I do—how is it you English say it—I do not bite.”

Rowan swallowed.

“And I wished to ask you—I heard that you students have a day to go to Hogsmeade—would you, perhaps, consent to meet me at Café Crépuscule? It is a little café, just off the High Street in town. It is a very charming place – it reminds me of home.”

Rowan sucked in a gasp.

“Please, do not misunderstand,” he went on, “I know—I know you are shy. You see, that is why I want to meet. You have, I think, a gift for the study of the past, and I think—if you are not certain that should be your career path—I would like a chance to speak with you, to see if I can persuade—”

“Rowan?”

Rowan’s gasp came out all at once. “Candice!”

The relief would have been obvious to a deaf person. She didn’t even have time to stutter.

The younger girl was silhouetted by the torchlight in the hall beyond, but once she stepped into the Owlery, it was easy to see her narrowed eyes and puzzled frown. “Is … everything ok? Rowan?” she asked.

“I—um—” Rowan swallowed, trying to think of a way to say, _No, no, not at all, get me out of here!_ without actually saying it.

“Of course everything is all right,” Mr. Bellerose answered for her, just the edge of irritation audible. “I am sending a letter, that is all. And I should get to it.” As if Rowan had been the one waylaying him, he turned to the owls with a faint _tch_ , selected a tawny one almost at random, tied a letter to its leg, and turned to leave.

But before he left, he had a parting shot to fire. “Think about what I said, Mademoiselle? I truly think you should consider a career in archaeology – and I would be happy to talk with you about it at any time.”

“Um – th-th-thanks,” Rowan stammered. She deliberately didn’t answer about the Café Crépuscule. _But I know where I won’t be going this weekend._

She watched him go without a further word. So did Candice. And as soon as Mr. Bellerose rounded the corner, Candice rounded on Rowan. “Rowan—”

Rowan covered Candice’s mouth. “ _Shh!_ ”

Together they stood in silence until the last of Mr. Bellerose’s footfalls died away. Then, and only then, did Rowan remove her hand from Candice’s mouth. But slowly, ready to slap it on again if needed.

It wasn’t needed. Candice had the sense to whisper. “What the—what the hell was that?”

Rowan’s shoulders slumped. “He’s been d-d-doing that f-f-for almost a m-m-month.”

“A _month_? He’s been acting like a total creep for a month?” Candice gasped. She stared at the doorway and the stairs leading down. “Who have you told?”

And Rowan felt herself start to turn red. “N-n-nobody—what c-c-can I say? That he’s b-b-b-being—F-F-French?”

“Rowan, seriously, I know they have a reputation, but French guys are not all supposed to be—I don’t know—Pepé le Pew! And he wants you to meet him at this—Crepes Café?” Candice’s eyes were wide. “That is _super_ sketchy, Rowan!”

“Well, I’m n-n-not g-g-going to g-g-go!” Rowan said. “Honestly, I’m n-n-not an _idiot_ , C-Candice!”

Candice blinked, and for a moment she looked hurt. “I—I didn’t mean that …”

“Oh—oh, Merlin—l-l-look, I’m s-s-sorry, Candice I didn’t m-m-mean to s-snap.” Rowan swallowed and bit her lip. “I—he j-j-just—he _d-d-does_ c-c-creep me out. And …”

She bit down harder on her lip, staring at the door and the steps.

“I w-w-wish I knew what to d-d-do,” she whispered, softly enough that she wasn’t sure if Candice heard or not.

_I’ll talk to Mum,_ she told herself. She had already all-but-decided that she would—this conversation just confirmed it.

She didn’t see, looking at the door, Candice’s thoughtful expression. And by the time she looked back, it was gone.

However, just because she didn’t see it didn’t mean that it wasn’t there.

* * *

The part of Zach that took his duties as prefect very, very seriously knew that he should do something. And that that something probably shouldn’t be listening to a “brilliant idea” of Candice’s. The part of Zach that was a friend … wanted to listen to what Candice had to say.

Later, he wouldn’t be sure why Jon had dragged him along; he had to have known that Zach theoretically was honor-bound to stop them or at least discourage them. But Jon knew Zach well enough to know that some things he took more seriously than his duties as a prefect, and that his friends were one of them.

“We should totally report this Mr. Bellerose,” Blair said in the silence that Candice left for a minute after she finished her story.

“For what? We haven’t got a lot more than a secondhand report of him being all Pepé le Pew with Rowan.” Quill scowled, his dark eyes seeming to glow like banked coals. “That’s not enough to do anything with.”

“Exactly!” Candice broke in, apparently having given the group as much time as she could without divulging her plan. And she had a plan. Zach might not have known her half as well as her Ravenclaw compatriots, but the way she was bouncing in her seat, eyes filled with barely contained frantic energy, the way she was twirling her wand around in her fingers, tossing it in the air and catching it like a baton – all of it told a story that Zach could read without needing any subtle inside knowledge.

“I’m sure Professor Flitwick would at least look into it.” Blair tucked her hair behind her ear. “Or if not Flitwick, Lipskit—or what about Professor Zanetti? You know she takes this kind of thing seriously.”

“Supporting an official investigation doesn’t tell us what Pepé wants with Rowan.” Candice shook her head sharply. “And he wants _something_ with her. This is all but a few dodgy chatrooms away from being a special on _To Catch a Predator_ ; there’s something going on here.”

The others looked blankly at her and she dismissively waved her hand.

“The analogy—I think it’s an analogy—doesn’t matter here. What does matter here is that we have a perfect opportunity. We can set up a sting.” Candice nodded once triumphantly. Unfortunately, she got back four blank looks and a skeptical one. “Ugh! The wizarding world needs to find its way out from under its rock. We can make Pepé incriminate himself and then we have him—no official, slow-as-snot investigation necessary!”

“We. Are. Not. Having. Rowan. Meet. Up. With. That. Arse. Candice!” Quill snarled.

“Who said anything about Rowan—do you really think it’s an actual fourteen-year-old waiting when the paedophile shows up at the dodgy meeting place? Rowan can be the bait without being—you know—in danger.”

“How?” Jon asked, sounding honestly curious.

“Polyjuice. We nip off with a wee bit of hair from Rowan’s hairbrush, dump it in the potion, drink it—and voila! Rowan without endangering Rowan,” Candice proclaimed excitedly.

“Polyjuice takes a month to brew, Candice.” Blair ticked off on her fingers. “Its ingredients are regulated, and even if we could get the potion in time, and even if we did Polyjuice someone to look like Rowan, they’d still be alone in that café with a man with obviously bad intentions.”

“She’s right,” Aubrey said. “If this Bellerose is a predator and Rowan his prey, he’s gonna know who we are. He’ll be on the lookout for Rowan’s friends. And he won’t do anything more incriminating than he did after you showed up at the door to the owlery.”

“If you guys were _you_ , sure. But he’s not likely to pay much as much attention to other students who aren’t Rowan’s friends.”

“And how are we supposed to get other people to watch Rowan instead?”

“Polyjuice!” Candice interrupted excitedly. “We go ‘round the tower, nipping some hair out of brushes and sinks, and voila, you blokes are no longer Rowan’s friends either.”

“Us blokes?” Jon repeated slowly.

“You being Rowan is only a slightly worse idea that putting the real Rowan in the café,” Quill told her bluntly. “I know you want to help, Candice, but Rowan knows a bunch of spells and hexes and jinxes and counters to get her out of trouble—you …” He trailed off, apparently not unkind enough to finish the thought. Candice still kinda winced and looked at her wand.

“And we still don’t have access to Polyjuice,” Blair reminded them.

“Well, _you’re_ wrong—even if—even if Quill might— _might—_ not be,” Candice said. “It’s simple. You know Yaxley has a bunch of potions in the supply closet—all those things she has to demonstrate a lot—but …” She trailed off biting her lip.

“Doesn’t get consistent results out of?” Zach offered speaking for the first time.

Candice blinked and then somewhat glared at Jon. “Why did we invite the prefect to this planning session?” she asked.

“Because the prefect was Rowan’s friend _first_ ,” Zach answered. “But that’s why she has all those bottles of potion in there: because it’s easier for her to demonstrate their uses without having to make sure she can consistently brew it—or so Spencer says.”

“And I’ll trust the potions genius.” Jon grinned. “I hear your friend Spencer is second only to Sybilla Cromwell.”

“Actually, I think Spence is better than Sybilla, but he’s just a lowly Hufflepuff—we can’t be the best at anything after all,” Zach said, just a little bitterness creeping into his tone.

“Sorry, Adonis.” He pinched Zach’s cheek.

“Okay, so does the prefect want to point out that breaking into Yaxley’s office is against about a billion school rules—or should I do it?” Aubrey asked lightly.

“I think you already did it, no need for me to,” Zach reminded him.

“Except it probably ought to be said more than once if you are even sorta considering it,” Blair pointed out ruthlessly.

“What are our choices, Blair?” Candice folded her arms over her chest. “You know how many times Rowan’s hopped into the fire for us—for all of us. She could have gotten herself put back in the infirmary helping me get my laptop back from Frida and Trish. How many times has she patched up Quill and Jon from scuffles so that none of the teachers would know they were fighting? How many times has she stayed up way late helping us with reports and homework and what not because that’s just how Rowan is—don’t we owe it to our friend to try?” She looked down at her wand. “Don’t you think she’d do the same for us?” she added in a whisper.

* * *

_Honestly, Mother, is it really too much to ask for you to get basic things right?_ Vivianne fumed. _All you had to do was put the letters in the right envelopes. That’s it!_

But no, her mother couldn’t do that. She had to mix up the envelopes instead, putting Professor Yaxley’s letter in Vivianne’s envelope and Vivianne’s letter in Professor Yaxley’s envelope (or so Vivianne assumed). She was just thanking her lucky stars that her mother’s letters to Professor Yaxley started with a practically shouted _ROSIE!_ at the top, so Vivianne was spared any gory details she’d much rather not know.

And her mother had no sense of timing. She had to make this mix-up right before a Hogsmeade weekend, and Viviane had to discover it just when she sensed Blake eying her, possibly sizing up his opportunity to ask her out for it.

Perhaps Vivianne could have waited … but no, she had to get this letter where it belonged. _Had_ to. That was all there was to it.

So she hurried down the corridor to Professor Yaxley’s office, intending to drop the letter off and hurry back to the common room—

“Shh! Is someone coming?”

Vivianne stopped.

It was hard to recognize a whisper from around a corner. But there was something in the tone. Excitable. Nervous. Perhaps a bit hyper.

“This was a terrible idea.” That whisper was worried. “We should go before we get caught!”

“We can’t leave now!” The first whisperer again. “Aubrey’s almost got the door open!”

“Maybe I should just pick the lock.” A _third_ whisperer – this voice a little deeper, with anger bubbling just under the surface.

Vivianne looked around. No one else was in the corridor with her. And around the corner was Professor Yaxley’s office.

As quietly as she could, she slipped off her shoes. Waving her wand and concentrating, she forced the shoes to float after her. Then she padded toward the corner on stocking feet, mentally cursing cold dungeon floors with every step.

She took her compact mirror out of her pocket and carefully angled it to reflect around the corner.

What she had been expecting to see—wasn’t this.

_The hell?_

She had perhaps thirty seconds to make a decision. She made it in ten.

She rounded the corner silently, and then, hands on hips, staring at the interlopers, demanded, “And just what do _you_ lot think you’re doing?”

There were five Ravenclaws in the corridor; she’d seen that much in her mirror. And she recognized all of them. Nervous and tightly wound Blair Ross, too-cocky-for-his-own-good Aubrey Pierson, quick-tempered Quill Diaz, irrepressible Jon McIntosh, and damned annoying Candice Stewart. _Rowan’s_ friends, all of them.

Except there was one person whom Vivianne had not seen in her mirror – he’d been blocked by Quill and Jon – and his presence made Vivianne recalibrate.

Zach Duncan.

_The … hell?_

“It’s not what it looks like!” Candice said.

All of her friends looked at her with irritation, and Vivianne was sure she heard a groan from one of them.

“Oh, really?” Vivianne asked Candice, since she had effectively declared herself the spokesperson. “Then what is it? From where I’m standing, it looks like you – all – are attempting to break into a professor’s office.”

Her eyes flickered, almost of their own accord, to Zach. But why not? He was the prefect. He should have been stopping this lot! What the hell was he thinking?

She saw him take a deep breath, but his gaze didn’t waver.

Vivianne was the first to look away – but only because Candice started to speak, and to ignore her would be rude.

“Um—well, okay, maybe that part is true,” Candice admitted. “But—we’re—we’re not trying to screw things up for Professor Yaxley! Honest!”

“Oh, really?” Vivianne asked. “Then why are you here?”

“Um—well—Rowan—”

Aubrey slapped his hand on Candice’s mouth – probably because he was closest. “We need some—hard-to-find Potions ingredients. It’s for an experiment. Right, Blair?”

“I—what? Um! Yes! Right, right.”

“Us Ravenclaws, we’re always experimenting,” Jon agreed.

Vivianne rolled her eyes. “You Ravenclaws, you’re rotten liars the lot of you. Although _you_ might have gotten away with it,” she added, rather charitably she thought, to Aubrey.

Then she turned back to Candice. “What about Rowan?”

Candice seemed to be taking a deep breath, but Aubrey’s hand was even tighter on her mouth. “Nothing about Rowan.”

“Rowan doesn’t know a thing about this,” Quill added.

Vivianne glanced at Blair. The older girl looked uncomfortable—but not _too_ uncomfortable.

So … this was about Rowan … but perhaps Rowan didn’t know anything about it.

Vivianne glanced back at Candice. “Let her talk,” she said to Aubrey.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Aubrey replied.

Candice groaned.

“Oh, I think you will,” Vivianne replied. “Because if you don’t, I’ll go right to Professor Yaxley and tell her that I found all of you trying to break into her office – and that it’s got something to do with her least favorite half-blood.”

She put her hands on her hips, tilted her chin, and raised her eyebrows. _Your move, Ravenclaws … and Hufflepuff._

Jon’s shoulders slumped. “Let her talk, Aubrey.”

Aubrey sighed, then, wincing a little, removed his hand from Candice’s mouth.

“Ugh! _Finally_! You—” Candice pointed at Vivianne, “you Gorloises—you’re ultra-feminists, right? I mean, you’re the militant feminazis that have the men’s rights arseholes shitting themselves!”

Quill buried his head in his hands and groaned, but at least everyone else looked as confused as Vivianne felt.

“I understood about half of that,” she said slowly. “And I really don’t think I want to know about the other half. So please – explain about Rowan, and do keep the esoteric vocabulary to a minimum.”

Candice took a deep breath. “There—there’s this guy. A Mr.—Bellrose? And he’s totally creeping on Rowan. He—I caught him trying to—he’s acting like a paedophile! And you Gorloises—you wouldn’t want _any_ guy doing that to _any_ girl, would you?” Candice smiled in a way that she probably thought was winsome, but she just didn’t have the face for it.

Vivianne, however, was stuck on one name. “Monsieur Bellerose?” she asked. Then she remembered her audience and tried again, with English pronunciation. “Mr. Bellerose?”

_Bellerose …_

One did not survive long in the Slytherin dungeons without being able to think very, very quickly.

Vivianne took a deep breath and pointed. “That dungeon should be empty. I think we should not have this conversation in … such a public forum, don’t you?”

Quill stared at her, jaw fallen. “Are you _kidding_ me?”

“I’m sorry, are you questioning me?” Vivianne asked. “I can always go right to Professor Yaxley and tell her everything I saw and most of what I heard. Is that what you’d prefer?”

Six sighs, winces, etc., were the only reply she got to that. “I thought so. Dungeon, now.”

The six of them exchanged glances, but slowly trooped into the dungeon. Vivianne followed, her shoes bringing up the rear.

“Um …” Candice murmured, staring at the shoes. A look from Vivianne – and perhaps an elbow from Jon – was enough to silence her.

The dungeon in question was an empty classroom. Vivianne waved her wand and concentrated; seven desks arranged themselves into a circle. Vivianne took one of them, putting her shoes back on as casually as she could.

“Now,” she said as the other six seated themselves. The only ones brave enough to sit next to her were Aubrey … and Zach. Vivianne tossed her head and made herself stare at Candice, the weakest link. “Explain.”

Candice explained what she had seen. What Rowan had said. And she explained her plan. The rest of the group put in a few comments every now and then – mostly Quill, translating when Candice got too Muggle to be comprehended.

When she was done, Vivianne frowned, leaning back. She tapped her fingers together.

She had questions … but which to ask first?

She turned to Zach first, partly as camouflage, partly because … well, that didn’t matter. “And how exactly did you get dragged into this?”

“Rowan is my friend,” he replied, as if that explained everything.

_His … friend?_

“We met on the train, first year,” Jon said. Vivianne turned sharply to him. There was something too … knowing in his expression, his tone. But what could he possibly know? There was nothing _to_ know. “Rowan shared a compartment with Zach and me.”

“Ah. Yes. Of course,” Vivianne murmured. She remembered now. How many times had she heard Frida complaining that the two wizard boys from her island – the ones who were exactly her age – were both friends with the hapless half-blood?

She frowned, mulling that over, and asked her next question. “And—you said that Monsieur Bellerose has been hanging around Rowan for about a month?”

“That’s what Rowan said,” Candice replied.

Vivianne nodded slowly. The last time she had had extended interaction with Monsieur Bellerose was about a month ago, when she’d vomited all over him.

She’d been looking at _students_ ever since … but what if …?

_But why_ Rowan _?_

There was one way to find out …

“Vivianne?” asked Zach. Vivianne looked up.

Why was _she_ having trouble meeting _his_ eyes? She wasn’t the one who’d been caught trying to break into a professor’s office!

Vivianne took a breath, tossed her hair over her shoulders, and raised an eyebrow at him. “Yes?”

“You’re—friends with Sybilla Cromwell, right?” Zach asked. “What would you do if someone was—”

“Creeping!” Candice interrupted.

Vivianne glared at the younger girl before turning back to Zach. “Making advances to her in a decidedly … creepy way?” she asked.

He smiled. It was just a poke of a smile, but it made – forced – Vivianne to smile back. How was it that Zach had a smile like that, one that seemed to demand a response?

“Well, to answer your question …” Vivianne looked away, pretending to focus into the distance. “What would I do if some older gentleman was making inappropriate advances to Sybilla? Certainly not _this_. Sybilla would have my head if she knew that I’d masqueraded as her out of some … misguided impulse to protect her. After all, she knows far more hexes than I do. However—Rowan is _quite_ a different breed, and so your point is taken.”

She pretended to glance over her nails, pretended that she hadn’t a care in the world other than them. “So …” She paused, partly for effect, partly to reconsider her options. Was she sure about this?

_Yes._

“So I won’t be telling Professor Yaxley – or any other professor, caretaker, staff member, etc. – what I saw today,” Vivianne said.

Ravenclaws should never play poker. The relief that washed through the room was palpable.

At least until Vivianne spoke again. “On one condition.”

The tension ratcheted back up again.

“You see, I noticed a problem with your plan. While the general idea – the Polyjuice masquerade, etc. – is rather inspired, it has a fatal flaw, and that was your plan to get the Polyjuice. But that’s only to be expected.” She shrugged. “One should not send eagles – and a badger – to do a snake’s job.”

“Wait …” Candice said.

“So, I am willing to remedy this flaw in your plan,” Vivianne continued, “and I will get you the Polyjuice, and – in fact – I will even get you some hairs from the Slytherin dorm rooms, so that Monsieur Bellerose will have even less reason to be suspicious of the other students in the café. However, again—all of this is on one condition.”

They were all smart people in this room, and each of them – even Zach – was looking at her with a mix of dread and trepidation. “Please, no,” Aubrey said.

Vivianne just smirked. “I want in.”


	19. Chapter 18: Those Meddling Kids

**Chapter 18: Those Meddling Kids**

Zach kicked his feet up onto a planter and tried to look like he was just relaxing with friends. The observant might have noticed that he was with what Candice referred to as the Breakfast Club and not his usual group of friends as he was planning for Hogsmeade weekend. As for his usual group of friends, when he had said that he would be busy for a while Hogsmeade weekend, then had clammed up, Juliette had demanded answers and had not been happy with his reticence. But Shae had taken one look at Zach’s face then deliberately started an argument about the Hufflepuff Quidditch team – and specifically Caid, one of their beaters, and the boy that Juliette had a crush approximately the size of a Ukrainian Ironbelly on.

And Shae knew it. Seeing Juliette acting shy around him was pretty funny. She’d obviously never been shy or particularly uncertain in her life.

It might have been the end of it with Juliette, but it wasn’t entirely the end of it. Krem had noticed too. Not surprising – Krem noticed a lot.

“ _Do you just not want to talk about whatever this is, or just not want to talk about it with Juliette?” Krem asked, a little concern on his face._

“ _I—” Zach rubbed his neck. His father had been an excellent liar, and Zach had spent so much of his life modeling himself as the opposite of his father that he knew he was a terrible liar._

_Krem clasped his arm and smiled at him._ “ _It’s all right—do you need me to cover for you?” Krem asked. Zach blinked, startled. “On dates or not, I’m owed a few favors by our favorite pranksters.”_

“ _Oh, so girls are why it’s been quiet?” Zach offered as a lame joke. Krem laughed anyway._

“ _Yes. Rove might want to write a thank-you note to Carrie, Donna, Selena, and Niketa.” Zach frowned slightly. Niketa was hardly a common name, he could only think of one, but …_

“ _Like Dueling team co-captain, Niketa? Isn’t—” Zach trailed off, unable to think of a nice way to ask what he was thinking._

“ _Isn’t she a Slytherin seventh year?” Amusement was plastered all over Krem’s face. “Yes, she is—and if you want some great practice on shielding charms, go up to her—or Booker—and suggest that they’re dating.” Krem shrugged. “You’re welcome to ask Antony Quince how that goes.”_

“ _I heard about that, I think.”_

“ _It took me, Claudia, James, Chris, and Flitwick to shut it down.” Krem shook his head. “I hear Niketa wants to go pro with dueling; I think she has a good chance of being successful.” Zach smiled. “But—the results are the same, whatever they’re calling their relationship.”_

“ _He’s okay, though, right?”_

“ _Who? Oh, Antony?” Krem snorted. “I heard Madam Pomfrey ask Flitwick if he’d be worried about a Bludger making a full recovery when he asked if Antony would make one. He’s fine.”_

“ _Still, I guess I understand, even if they really like each other. He’s a Gryffindor, which there’s nothing wrong with—unless you’re a Slytherin—and not Claudia—and a year younger than she is,” Zach pointed out._

“ _I wouldn’t worry too much—Slytherins are survivors.” Krem shrugged. “I think the only people who’d really say anything are idiots like Antony—or maybe Frida and Trish.” Zach shook his head._

“ _What—what about Vivianne? Hardly anything happens in Slytherin without her …”_

“ _Stamp of approval? I gather she’s kinda like ‘you’re crazy, but it’s your funeral.’ She’s not picking a fight with Niketa. The ones smart enough to win a fight with Niketa are the ones who are smart enough not to get into it with her. If, of course, you trust a Gryffindor’s opinion on the inner workings of Slytherin.”_

“ _True.”_

“ _But Shae and Claudia were talking about it, and that’s way Claudia’s reading it too,” Krem told him._

“ _That’s only four.” Zach mused. “Booker and—” he shrugged, glancing over both shoulders._

“ _Right, Donna and Kenny, Carrie and Ringo, Selena and Cameron. If you care.” Krem echoed the shrug. “It leaves Ben—I mean if you need an exploding toilet or something to cover for you.” Zach thought for a long moment, then blew his breath out with a sigh._

“ _If this really does go south—I think it’s better to just get out of the way,” Zach told him._

“ _Although, that’s not fair.”_

_Zach looked at Krem with a raised eyebrow._ “ _What’s not fair?”_

“ _Ben exploding a toilet. Our cowboy is more subtle than that. You can tell, if you look, who masterminded a prank,” Krem said. “Cameron’s are snarky and direct. Ringo’s are clever, witty; Kenny’s are sneak attacks.”_

“ _And Ben?” Zach asked curiously._

“ _He’s the one who—if you think ‘This is crazy—but amazing’ that’s Ben. He doesn’t take it too seriously. He’s not trying to say anything with his pranks, really, or anything beyond, ‘Here, have a laugh.’ That’s why I knew he had nothing to do with the puppet theatre. It’s mean, and he’s not. But it had a clear message—a mean one—and not a funny one.”_

“So—where are we?” Candice asked bouncing slightly in her seat and shooting Zach back to the present.

“Blair’s going to take point,” Quill said.

“Why Blair? No offense, doll,” she said peering at Blair, who was corkscrewing a curl around her finger.

“Because I’m of age—which makes my using the Polyjuice less illegal—and I know more hexes.” Blair’s eyes flicked up and then back down at her shoes. The leather was mirror-polished and perfect.

“And because you’re less likely to punch someone than these two are,” Aubrey gestured to either side of himself where Quill and Jon were sitting.

“Has our—anonymous compatriot—come through with who _we_ are supposed to be yet?” Candice asked.

Zach nodded; Vivianne had slipped him a note in class with a list of people on it.

“Spill!” Candice leaned forward, eyes excited under her crookedly trimmed fringe.

“Remind me to trim your fringe when we get back to the tower,” Blair sighed. Candice rolled her eyes, but then looked back at Zach, expectantly.

“Okay, Frida Rowle, Thierry Laurent, Trish Abbot, Antony Quince, and Fabius Gamp.”

“Ugh.” Candice said. “Well, there won’t be any trouble making _Monsieur le Pew_ believe we’re not Rowan’s friends with that group at least.”

“She’s got a point,” Jon said looking at Quill who was scowling.

“So who is who? Or do we get to pick that?” Candice asked.

“The only request she made was for me to do Fabius,” Zach said looking over the note. Jon quirked an eyebrow at Zach. “Do you want to play act being on a date with, uh—her? Especially as she said _she_ would be ‘trading’ with Isolde Macnair.”

“And we all know Isolde’s reputation. We can’t assume that—Monsieur le Pew?—doesn’t?”

“Sure, he’s all Frenchie—and acts like Pepé le Pew, so why not Monsieur like our compatriot calls him?” Candice said.

“I bet I could do Frida,” Jon said after a moment. “Zach and I have known her all our life—and if Zach’s already cast … Anyone else got any preferences?”

“Anybody but Trish?” Candice asked.

“That’d mean you’d be a guy, Candice,” Blair pointed out gently.

Candice shrugged. “So?”

Aubrey cleared his throat before Candice and Blair could snap at each other. “I think …” he said, blowing out a breath as a sigh. “Do you guys trust me? ‘Cause I have an idea of where everybody’d be best.”

“Go for it,” Jon said. “C’mon Candice,” he said when she grimaced again. “Eventually someone’s going to come along—and I think Rowan’s already getting suspicious. It’s still your plan.”

Candice nodded, reluctantly, but she nodded.

“Okay, I think we’ll go with Jon’s suggestion for where he’s at. Not that any of these people are subtle, but she’s about as close as that gets—I assume that Thierry is ‘with’ Frida?” Zach nodded. He knew that – not from Vivianne, but from Claudia.

“Sweet.” He looked quickly from Candice to Jon. Then shook his head. “Quill, buddy, uh—how do you feel about—”

“I am _not_ snogging Jon.” Quill glared, his dark brows drawn down, giving his face the look of a raptor, interrupting Aubrey.

“I wasn’t even asking,” Aubrey said. “Nope, I’m thinking—uh—Trish.”

“Wait, what?” Blair gasped.

“Blair, Candice would make a terrible Trish.” Aubrey pointed out. “If anyone saw Candice in costume, they’d _never_ believe it.” Blair sighed, causing a troubled glance between Jon and Aubrey.

“And I’d make a good Trish?” Quill asked sourly.

“You do grouchy and hair-trigger much better than Candice does.” Aubrey shrugged. “Think you can do it, buddy?” Quill finally sighed and nodded.

“Okay—so for the boys then?” Jon asked.

“Candice can be Antony and—I’ll be Thierry.”

Jon looked curiously at Aubrey. “You’re okay with that?” he asked.

“You’re hot, Jon. Sure, I’m okay with that.” Aubrey grinned.

“Antony. Man, is this the _best_ she can really do?” Candice scowled at her shoes.

“Probably not, but these are the ones no one will _miss_.”

* * *

The genius of her chosen victims was that absolutely nobody would be asking too many questions about where they were during the Hogsmeade weekend. The difficulty of her chosen victims was making sure that they weren’t in Hogsmeade while the masquerade was on.

Vivianne thought she had a good idea for Isolde. She had no idea what to do about the boys, but she had someone she could go to for help.

She had an _excellent_ idea for Frida and Trish.

Ever since Frida and Trish had fallen victim to Peeve’s condom-throwing fit, Vivianne had kept her ear to the ground, listening for something – anything – she could use to take Frida and Trish down a peg. She had briefly considered trying to encourage them to get into it with Niketa Gadhavi over her Gryffindor “boyfriend,” but she had no wish to be on the other end of Niketa’s wand if that ever got back to her.

And then she had struck gold. A quick conversation with her distant cousin Guinevere Lynette confirmed it – and now Vivianne had her plan.

So she walked up to where Frida and Trish were sitting in the common room, _Witch Weekly_ open on Trish’s lap and Frida pointing to one of the photos. Vivianne coughed. “Ladies? Might I have a word?”

Trish looked up with wide eyes and as big a smile as she could show. Frida was a little more restrained, but there was no mistaking the spark of pleasure. “Why, of course, Vivianne,” Frida replied. “What can we do for you?”

“Follow me, please,” Vivianne said. As she turned, she added, “I … found out something that might be of interest to you.”

She didn’t smirk or simper as she led the way to her dorm room. But she inside, she crowed. This was just too _easy_.

_Careful, Vivianne. You haven’t gotten to the hard part yet._

As she had thought (because she made sure of this before she went in), the dorm room was empty except for Sybilla, and Sybilla was reading a book with a Muggle science book jacket on it. Sybilla raised an eyebrow when she saw the three of them enter, but that was the sum total of her reaction.

Vivianne turned on the spot and waved her wand so that the door shut – and locked – behind Frida and Trish. Trish’s eyes went wide and Frida’s narrowed.

Vivianne gave them no more time to react. “Ladies, I’ll not beat around the bush.” She hopped onto her bed and gestured for Frida and Trish to sit across from her on Cornelia’s bed. “I’m sure you remember my – allergic reaction from a month ago.”

Trish’s brow furrowed, but Frida nodded at once. “Of course. It was the same day that we were—taunted with that horrible puppet theatre.”

Trish gasped. “Oh! Oh, yes, of _course_ , Vivianne! How awful – we all had such an awful day!”

“Indeed,” Vivianne answered, fighting back any hint of irony. “And—it’s interesting that you bring up the puppet show. Because I’ve been attempting to find out who spiked my pumpkin juice …”

She watched Frida and Trish’s faces closely, in case – just in case – Midas had had a point when he suggested that a girl had spiked Vivianne’s drink. Of course they did have good alibis, but one never knew …

Both girls looked interested, but neither looked nervous or even triumphant. Vivianne let that pass. “And—I will admit that, as of yet, I have not had the kind of success in that endeavor that I was hoping for. But … I _did_ find out about the puppet show.”

“You _did_?” Trish gasped.

“Wasn’t it those stupid Gryffindorks?” Frida asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Surprisingly enough, no, it wasn’t,” Vivianne replied. “For once, they had nothing to do with it. But I know who did do it.”

Frida and Trish leaned forward. Frida was already reaching for her wand.

“And you can bet your last Galleon I won’t be telling you who it is unless you promise to be sensible about it,” Vivianne said.

Trish’s jaw fell. “What?”

“We don’t need you two losing us any more house points,” Vivianne pointed out bluntly. “You did us enough damage last year—”

“That was _last year_ ,” Frida snapped.

“The house points may be water under the bridge, Frida dear – but trust me, the memories linger. And do I need to get into the points you lost us when you decided to pick on one of the hapless half-blood’s Mudblood friends?” Vivianne raised an eyebrow. “To be honest, the only reason I’m even considering telling you is because it’s the best bad option. I know the two of you are going to want revenge. If _I_ tell you, at least I have a prayer of convincing you to do it in a way that doesn’t damage our entire house.”

“Do you think we’re idiots, Vivianne?” Frida asked, voice growing dangerously cold.

“Seriously?” Vivianne snorted. “You’ve not given any of us reason to have much faith in your decision making-abilities lately. Am I wrong, Sybilla?” Vivianne asked, turning to Sybilla.

“Occasionally, as are we all,” Sybilla replied, not missing a beat. “But in this instance, no.”

“See? She agrees with me,” Vivianne answered, turning back to Trish and Frida with a smirk.

Trish’s expression was puddling into sadness, but Frida’s lip curled in what could have been a snarl or could have been a sneer. “I see. So what does that mean for us, Vivianne?” Frida asked.

“It means that I’ll tell you who did it – _if_ you promise to take my advice and be sensible about getting your own back,” Vivianne answered.

Trish was already nodding, but Frida frowned. “If you found out … we could find out, too. And we’ll be able to do what we want, then, without any preconditions.”

“And _this_ is why Vivianne wasn’t wrong,” Sybilla said. “Stop being offended and think for a minute, Frida. Vivianne wants to help you get your revenge _and_ get away with it.”

“Try to do a person a favor …” Vivianne sighed, shaking her head.

Frida’s eyes were narrowed. But Trish pulled on her sleeve. “Honestly, Frida … why don’t we just take Vivianne’s advice? Professor Flitwick’s detentions are not fun.”

Frida pursed her lips together. Slowly, she nodded. “Very well. Who will Trish and I be taking down?”

Vivianne took a deep breath. “Tiara Platt, Roslyn Stroulger, and Beryl Tugwood.”

“What?” Trish gasped. “They’re—they’re in _our house_!”

“And they were standing right near the puppet theater when we found it,” Frida mused.

“Indeed – and now, you see why I don’t want you getting caught when you go after them?” Vivianne tossed her hair over her shoulder. “No matter how you try to play it, if you get caught, Slytherin loses.”

Frida leaned back, even as Trish was still gaping. “That … is very true,” she admitted. “So … what would you suggest, Vivianne?”

“I know the two of you pull more things than you get caught for. It’s just that—when you do get caught—things tend to go catastrophically wrong. So … my advice to you is this. I know that the three of them meet in Dungeon 5 on Thursdays after dinner to study. Take them out then.”

“But—Dungeon 5 is right across from Yaxley’s office! _She’ll_ catch us!” Trish protested.

“Are you telling me that the pair of you can’t manage to put a Silencing Charm on the door?” Sybilla asked, actually bringing her book down. “It’s not a bloody difficult charm.”

“Of—of course we could,” Frida stammered.

“And even if that goes wrong – as Trish said – Yaxley will catch you,” Vivianne added. “And do you know what she _won’t_ do?”

“Take points from Slytherin,” Trish whispered. “Ooh … Vivianne, this isn’t a bad idea at all … surely we can think of something, Frida! We’ve got until Thursday!”

“Indeed …” Frida murmured. Still, though, she watched Vivianne from heavy-lidded eyes.

“Frida,” Vivianne replied, voice low and eyebrow raised, “I already told you what my price for this information was. If you go back on your word now … and if you get caught by anyone other than Yaxley … I will _not_ be pleased.”

“And the rest of Slytherin will be even more pissed,” Sybilla added.

Trish whimpered, and Frida slowly nodded.

Vivianne swung her legs onto her bed with a smirk. “See? I knew you’d see things my way. Now be off with you, my children. Go plot your revenge in peace.” She waved her wand to unlock the door.

“We will. Thanks, Vivianne!” Grinning, Trish got up and practically skipped from the room. Frida followed at a slightly slower pace.

Vivianne rested against the pillows, waiting until the sound of Frida and Trish’s footfalls faded into nothing. Sybilla must have been waiting for the same thing, for as soon as it happened she carefully put a bookmark into her book and said, “Those two have approximately the same odds of not getting caught by Yaxley as the Chudley Cannons have of winning the League Cup.”

“I know,” Vivianne replied, resting her hands behind her head and wiggling her toes.

“Ah. Is this your plan to take _them_ down?” Sybilla asked, not without interest.

“Partially. I also … need them out of commission for the Hogsmeade weekend, or at least part of it. Preferably in detention,” Vivianne answered.

Sybilla raised an eyebrow.

“I admit I’m in a bit of difficulty,” Vivianne went on. “Because … well … it has to do with my little bad turn last month.”

Sybilla tilted her head to the side and continued to survey Vivianne with no small amount of interest.

“And while … I could use your help … at the same time, it might be best if you still have some plausible deniability?” Vivianne asked.

“So you want me to do something for you without knowing what it’s about,” Sybilla translated.

“Er—yes.”

“You don’t trust me, Vivianne?” Sybilla asked, batting her eyelashes.

“Let’s just say that there are already going to be more people in on this than is ideal,” Vivianne muttered.

“Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead?” Sybilla asked. Vivianne nodded. “Understood. Well, as long as I get all the gory details once it’s safely over … what do you need?”

Vivianne didn’t bother to hide her relief. “I need Fabius Gamp, Thierry Laurent, and Antony Quince also out of commission for as long as Frida and Trish will be.”

Sybilla narrowed her eyes. “Fabius? I suppose I see the connection to Thierry and Antony … but Fabius?”

“I’ve already got a plan for Isolde – one that doesn’t involve her being in detention.”

“Ah. I see.” Sybilla leaned back, frowning at the canopy of her bed. “… Does the plan need to be subtle?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that I’ve heard from at least three people that Fabius has a bottle of firewhisky in his dormitory, and the odds that he won’t decide to open it on Saturday are remote, and that since Thierry and Antony’s girls will be in detention, they’re almost certain to join him …” Sybilla raised an eyebrow. “A bit of Sleeping Draught in the firewhisky …”

“Sybilla, you are a genius.”

“I know.”

Vivianne chuckled. “Seriously though – thank you. Any chance you could get me a Sleeping Draught?”

“Easy. You’ll have it by tomorrow.”

“Thank you. I mean it.”

“No trouble at all.” Sybilla picked up her book again. “Anything else you need my help with?”

“Not at the moment, no,” Vivianne replied.

Sybilla smiled, then she opened her book again with a smirk of her own.

Vivianne took that as her dismissal. She got up and headed back to the common room. Altogether, she was not displeased with how her plans were shaping. Frida and Trish were taken care of – and getting hairs from them would be simplicity itself. Fabius, Thierry, and Antony were as good as drugged. That only left Isolde …

“Vivianne!” came the cry.

Vivianne looked up and into Blake’s deep blue eyes. Funny – they weren’t nearly as attractive as she remembered …

Mentally she shook her head and forced her expression into one of wide-eyed wonder. “Yes?”

“Hey,” Blake said. He leaned against a pillar, smirking down at her. He’d untied his tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. If it wasn’t for the jumper, Vivianne probably could have gotten a fairly decent glance at his chest. As it was, there was enough to tantalize, but not enough to tease. And his whole pose – slouched, leaning, smirking – was casual confidence itself.

So Vivianne mirrored her pose to match. Head tilted up, a quick bat of the eyelashes, a sultry smile just poking at the corner of her lips … oh, yes, she’d look like she knew just was coming, and was eager for it – although not, of course, too eager. “Hello, yourself.”

“So …” Blake shrugged. “Have any plans for Hogsmeade?”

Vivianne’s smile widened just a tad. “Not … yet. Why? Do you have an idea?”

She met Blake’s eyes for a moment – then coyly looked away. But not before scanning the room and seeing that Isolde, sitting with Fabius’s arm over her shoulder, was watching.

_Excellent …_

“Well …” Blake shrugged and tried to smile. “I wasn’t doing anything … would you like to perhaps go with me, Vivianne?”

Vivianne looked up with a smile. “Oh, Blake – I thought you’d never ask!”

_And that’s one step closer to getting Isolde taken care of._

* * *

“Don’t, Trish,” Vivianne said.

“But!” Trish shot a hand out to indicate.

“Yes, I know what’s there. I know it’s three of your favorite targets.” Vivianne quirked an eyebrow, her lips drawn down into a slight frown. “The hapless half-blood, a Gryffindork, and Claudia. Leave it alone. You remember what we talked about the other day.”

Zach paused to let Sybilla, Vivianne, and Trish through the door, then more or less shook himself by the scruff of the neck after his eyes followed the sway of Vivianne’s hips for a moment longer than they maybe should have. That was something Michael would do. Her – hindquarters – weren’t there for Zach’s ogling.

“Aw, sweet, I’m sure it’s not anything ‘you did.’” Shae patted Rowan’s back.

“T-then wuh-why d-d-do t-t-they s-s-s-stop tal-talking e-every t-t-time I c-c-come into t-the c-c-common room?” Rowan rubbed at her eye under the edge of her glasses. Zach felt a wave of guilt crash over him.

“Because your friends are patently bad actors, Rowan,” Claudia said bluntly, softening it with a lopsided grin. “They have no idea how to act innocent when they’re not innocent.”

“But if it’s n-n-nothing I did, th-then why are t-they t-t-trying t-t-to _hide_ it from m-m-me?” Rowan buried her face in her hands. Shae and Claudia shared a look.

“Three can share a secret if two are dead,” Claudia offered with a shrug.

“That isn’t morbid at all.”

“The more people who know about something, the more likely there is to be a leak; they’re probably just trying to protect you. It probably involves Yaxley. They want to give you—plausible deniability. You know how every time Yaxley gets a split end she blames you. If you don’t know this whatever-it-is, then when she inevitably blames you, you won’t have to depend on _your_ acting ability to say she’s crazy to think you were involved,” Claudia offered, rubbing Rowan’s shoulder.

“Wow. That is—a very Slytherin way of looking at it.” Shae grinned at Claudia. “I guess what they say is true: lie down with snakes, get up with scales.”

“Isn’t t-that l-lie d-d-down w-with d-d-d-dogs, get up w-with f-fleas?” Rowan asked.

“Toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe, sweet.” Shae ruffled Rowan’s hair. “And look, not every one of your friends runs screaming when they see you—Zach’s been standing there for a good couple of minutes and not a single scream.”

“Yeah. T-thanks.” Rowan twined a piece of hair around her finger and stared at her shoes. The two girls shot Zach a grin before taking themselves off.

“Hey.” Zach sat down on the step next to Rowan.

“Hey.” Rowan scuffed her toe. “Do—do you k-know w-what’s going on—w-with J-Jon, I m-m-mean.”

“He’s madder than a hatter. He’s more clever than he really ought to be. He—um—likes boys?” Zach ticked off on his fingers.

“I m-m-meant about H-Hogsmeade w-weekend.”

“I know,” Zach said, answering two questions. Rowan would probably see through it.

“T-t-that’s w-what I t-t-thought,” Rowan said glumly.

“Claudia—is more right than wrong, Rowan,” Zach said, tipping his head trying to look at Rowan’s face, which she was hiding quite well with a screen of chiffon blonde hair. “Plus—you’ll be spending some time with your mum, right? You get so little time with Elaine.” This was way too close to a lie for Zach to feel comfortable with. Even if the last thing he wanted to be was like his father, Michael would have been able to dance circles around Rowan and she’d never have suspected. Or maybe she would have – but only because Michael couldn’t say “good morning” without lying twice.

“S-s-so t-t-that m-m-means I c-c-c-can’t k-know anything at _all_? T-t-that m-m-means m-m-my f-f-friends c-c-can’t even t-t-talk t-to m-m-me w-without it feeling a-a-awkward. It f-f-feels like t-t-they _hate_ m-me now or s-s-s-something.”

“Oh, Merlin, no, Rowan.” Zach gripped her hand hard. They weren’t doing this because they hated her – but it wasn’t like he could tell her that they were doing this _for_ her, because they cared about her. “They don’t hate you. I can’t talk about a lot else, I—I promised—but I _swear_ to you, they are not … excluding you because they _hate_ you. They—they really are trying to protect you—we are trying to protect you.” He tucked Rowan’s hair behind her ear. “You know I’m gonna have to sit here and make sad Crup faces at you until you cheer up, right?”

“N-no, no, n-not the s-s-sad C-Crup faces.” Rowan offered a sliver of a smile.

“Yes, another and another until you come to your senses,” Zach said, batting his lashes at her.

“T-that was _enemas_ ,” Rowan said primly.

Of course she’d recognize the Mel Brooks reference; he’d only seen Mel Brooks at Rowan’s house. They’d laughed loud enough to wake Robert up during _Men in Tights_ ; he’d come down in his housecoat and a disgruntled expression, trying not to smile as they’d been singing along with the chorus. “It’s times like now I sorta miss those silence charm things your mum did. How long ‘til you can do them?” he’d half joked.

“Well, be thankful. I’d rather see a sad Crup than get an enema.” Zach grimaced comically, sticking out his tongue and screwing up his face. “Ugh.”

“M-m-me too.” Rowan’s smile grew by quarters of inches, but it was growing.

“We’re gonna have a great weekend,” Zach said, rubbing Rowan’s shoulder. “Hogsmeade and Halloween—it’s all good, right?”

“I g-g-guess.”

“It’ll all be over soon,” Zach promised. If they all got caught, it might be their school careers would all be over soon, but it would be over soon. He looked at Rowan who was looking out over the courtyard, the hard-won smile once again lost. “So you want to help me with my potions essay?” Rowan elbowed him, but her lips twitched. “Hey, I might need the extra points in potions—with everything.”

* * *

“So … let me get this straight,” Isolde asked. “You want me to drink Polyjuice Potion and pretend to be you on a date with Blake … while you drink Polyjuice Potion and pretend to be me to do something you’re not telling me.” Isolde crossed her arms and leaned back. “Why?”

“Why should you agree, or why do I have this plan at all?” Vivianne asked. She and Isolde were sitting in Dungeon 7. It was Thursday evening, and dinner had just passed. Vivianne was listening with half an ear to the scolding coming from the room next door. She’d had to hide while Frida and Trish stormed into Dungeon 5 after Tiara, Roslyn, and Beryl, take off the Silencing Charm they put over the door (it wasn’t that good a charm to begin with), and dash into Dungeon 7 before Isolde could arrive.

Isolde had arrived not long afterward, but they hadn’t been able to talk at first. The sounds of shouted accusations, counter-accusations, and finally hexes had been too loud. Now there was only Professor Yaxley’s temper and scolding to listen to – but that was easy to ignore, so they did.

“Both,” Isolde answered, drawing Vivianne’s attention back to the matter at hand.

Vivianne sighed. She surveyed the nails she had been painting. “Well, to the first … I know you think that Blake is a good snogger. Go along with my plan, and you’ll have him all to yourself for the better part of an afternoon. _And_ , instead of finding yourself at the wrong end of my wand, you’ll have my gratitude for doing so.”

“You say that, but we both know that Belle managed to convince all of you to go on a double-date with her and James at Madam Puddifoot’s.”

“Are you telling me that you can’t work your way around that?” Vivianne asked, raising an eyebrow.

“… When you put it like that …” Isolde mused.

“I thought so.” Vivianne smirked. “As for your second question …” She sighed. “It’s Gorlois business.”

Isolde’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not a Gorlois woman.”

“No – but you do have the gumption and independent-mindedness to be one.” Vivianne put both of her hands on the desk. “And I know I can trust you.”

“Hmm.” Isolde leaned back, her blond ringlets cascading over her shoulders and shifting to pour down her back. “So … if I have Blake all to myself for an afternoon … anything goes?”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Vivianne answered. When she saw Isolde’s dismayed expression, she sighed and amended that to, “Don’t leave any messes I have to clean up.”

Isolde sighed. “You are _no fun_ , Vivianne.” Then she frowned. “What about Fabius?”

“What about him?”

“We had plans for Hogsmeade weekend. Will you be …?”

“As soon as you’re done with this, you’ll be able to spend the rest of the weekend with him. He won’t be leaving the castle until after all of this is over. And I will certainly not be snogging him.”

Isolde glared at her – then, without warning, she laughed. “I believe it! Merlin, Vivianne, you are so uptight. How do you live like that?”

“It’s worked for me so far,” Vivianne shrugged. “So … I take it this means you’re in?”

Isolde smiled. “Oh, what the hell? You only live once. Although … word to the wise, Vivianne?”

Vivianne raised an eyebrow.

“If you don’t want Blake, just throw him back so some other girl can have him. Share the wealth a bit.”

“I—what?” Vivianne asked. “I want Blake. Who said I didn’t want Blake?”

In response Isolde raised an eyebrow – a very Gorlois eyebrow. “Oh, honey. That is the wrong question to be asking.”

And without giving Vivianne a chance to do more than sputter and stammer, she got up and sauntered out of the dungeon, thankfully closing the door behind her.

_What the hell is up with her? I want Blake. Of course I want Blake. I’m—I’m letting her have a snog because it’s tactically necessary. Of course. That’s all it is. It’s not because of …_

_Anything or anyone else._

Vivianne took a deep breath. Then she grabbed her wand and muttered a Quick-Drying Charm over all of her nails, before she could do anything stupid, like run her hands through her hair.

And while she did that, she listened.

“DETENTION!” Professor Yaxley was bellowing. “Detention for all of you, Saturday! _Yes_ , during Hogsmeade weekend!” she snapped, probably because one of the girls was protesting. “Because for you three – your trick, besides being mean and cruel, caused me to look like an absolute fool in front of Professor Rove, Professor Lipskit, and half the student body! And _you two_! I have had enough of constantly pulling your fat from the fire! If you had been caught by anyone else, do you have any idea how many points Slytherin could have lost! Merlin! We’re supposed to be the house of the cunning and ambitious, but cunning gets you nowhere if you never stop to _think_! I won’t punish the entire house for your mistakes – but I do intend to see to it that you don’t repeat them! Now get back to the common room, and don’t let me – or _anyone else_ – catch you making more trouble!”

Vivianne smirked. _And that’s Frida and Trish taken care of._

But she gave it ten full minutes before she left the dungeon. After all, if she was spotted in the vicinity of Dungeon 5 too close to Frida and Trish’s little downfall, even those idiots might start to suspect something.

Once she judged the coast was clear, she left the dungeon. No one was in the corridor. _Excellent_.

Taking a deep breath, she composed herself into the picture of the nervous student about to ask a big favor. Then she walked up to Professor Yaxley’s office door and knocked on it.

“ _What_?” came the snapped reply.

Vivianne pretended to jump, just in case someone was watching. “Professor? I’m sorry, is this a bad time?”

“… Vivianne?” There was a bit of commotion from inside the office, the sound of bottles clinking and papers shuffling. Then footsteps, and finally, the door opening. Professor Yaxley stood in the doorway, frowning. “I’m sorry, my dear, I didn’t know it was you – is something the matter? Come in, come in.”

Vivianne didn’t smirk, not even when Professor Yaxley turned her back. But something inside her was doing cartwheels.

“Have a seat,” Professor Yaxley said, indicating the chair across from her desk. Vivianne sat. She noticed that the Professor’s desk was clean – almost too clean – except for a tumbler on the left side. But for a faint line of orange at the bottom, it was empty. Well, that answered one question.

Professor Yaxley folded her hands on the top of the desk, took what appeared to be a deep breath, and smiled. “Now. What can I do for you, Vivianne?”

Vivianne frowned and tried to look uncomfortable. It was not easy – it went against every instinct she possessed – but hopefully that would only help her. “I … have a favor of you to ask, Professor. Well—it’s Gorlois business, actually,” she sighed. “And it’s going to sound rather … odd.”

Professor Yaxley tilted her head. “Oh?”

Vivianne took a deep breath. This was it – the moment to sink or swim. The moment that would determine if their plan would work or not. “Grandmother needs your supply of Polyjuice Potion.”

Professor Yaxley’s eyes went wide. “What?!”

“I know—I know it’s odd,” Vivianne said. “I mean—it’s well beyond odd, I _know_ that. But …” She swallowed. “It has to do with … what happened in France.”

Now Professor Yaxley went very pale – paler than usual, even for her. “What—what do you mean—what happened in France?”

“I’m … afraid that I did notice when you and Mother attended that Ministry party – and when you were picked up by the _gendarme_ ,” Vivianne went on, trying to sound apologetic. “And according to Grandmother, there have been … complications from the whole incident.”

“Complications,” Professor Yaxley repeated. “Complications. And your grandmother can’t—can’t just toss some money at the lawyers and make them go away?”

Vivianne answered with a sad ghost of a smile. “I believe that was her first plan.”

“Of course. Of course. Your grandmother is an—intelligent woman.” Professor Yaxley reached for the tumbler with a shaking hand, then _tch_ ’d when she saw it was empty. Vivianne wondered just what the hell her mother and Professor Yaxley had done at this mysterious party. “But—Polyjuice? _My_ Polyjuice?”

Vivianne shrugged. “There isn’t time for Grandmother and—her allies to brew it themselves. And even if there was, you know how difficult it is to get the ingredients. It would immediately rouse suspicion. Whereas if _you_ buy ingredients … as you are the Potions Mistress of Hogwarts …”

“No one would suspect a thing. Of course. Of course.” Professor Yaxley swallowed. “How—how much do you need?”

“Enough for eight three-hour doses,” Vivianne answered.

“ _Eight_?” Professor Yaxley gasped. “That’s—that’s—”

“I know,” Vivianne shrugged. “I know. Apparently it’s a—complicated exercise.” _Too bloody complicated._ If Vivianne had had her way, they would have cut that number down by half – at least. But good luck convincing the Ravenclaws (and Hufflepuff) of that.

Professor Yaxley nodded. “Indeed. Can—can I see the letter from your grandmother? Just so I know—?”

“I’m afraid not.” Vivianne shook her head. “I burned it as soon as I read it, as Grandmother requested. And she said—specifically—not to let you see it. If you truthfully have seen no communication regarding this issue … well, Professor, you surely understand the workings of truth serums better than I do …”

“Oh … Merlin. It’s that … bad?” Professor Yaxley gasped.

“Bad enough that, from what I gathered from the letter, Grandmother hasn’t even told Mother what’s going on.”

“Oh, _Merlin_!” Professor Yaxley took a handkerchief from her bosom and used it to mop her brow. “But—oh my. Yes, yes, the Polyjuice, of course. When do you need it?”

“As soon as possible. Today, if you can manage it. Tomorrow at the latest.”

“Today? Well …” Professor Yaxley gulped, but she stood up. “Come with me.”

They crossed all of three feet to the door to Professor Yaxley’s storeroom. “Wait here,” she said to Vivianne. She slipped inside and closed the door behind her.

She came out with eight vials floating behind her, each containing a thick liquid that looked like black, bubbling mud. “You know – I mean, you’re sure that your grandmother knows – that you have to add a bit of the person you’re attempting to change into? Hair, a toenail clipping …?”

“Grandmother is quite aware of that, Professor,” Vivianne nodded. “Thank you so much. I—I don’t know the details—but I know Grandmother is grateful, too.”

“Oh—oh, this is nothing. After all, if …” Professor Yaxley shuddered. “Well—never mind that. Good luck, Vivianne, and tell your grandmother I said—thank you.”

“Of course,” Vivianne replied, carefully placing each of the vials into her bag.

Professor Yaxley seemed anxious to have her gone, so Vivianne bid her a polite goodnight and left the office. She returned to the common room at a leisurely pace, made her way to her dorm, and carefully stowed the vials in her wardrobe, in the hexed treasure box she’d gotten from her grandmother. They just fit. Then she returned to the common room for the remainder of the evening, pretending some sympathy with Frida and Trish and flirting with Blake as required.

It was only after Vivianne got into her bed that night and closed the curtains behind her that she allowed herself a single smirk.

_Mission accomplished._


	20. Chapter 19: Dun-dun-dun, Mission Improbable

**Chapter 19: Dun-dun-dun, Mission Improbable**

“Everybody, breathe—and quit acting like you have a stick stuck up your arses,” Aubrey sighed, surveying their miserable little group as they sat on the grass near the Shrieking Shack, waiting for Vivianne to arrive with the last piece of their plan.

“Given we’re gonna be Slytherins for the next three hours? Do we really want to get rid of the sticks?” Candice asked from where she was plastered on the grass, staring up at the sky.

“She’s got you there, Pierson,” Jon said, tossing his head in exact shades of Frida. It looked bizarre on Jon. First of all, there were no blonde curls to go flying, no blue eyes narrowed and … well, nothing against Jon’s tanned, good-natured face, but Frida’s usual scowl didn’t suit his features, not the way it suited (more or less) Frida’s Nordic ones. But that wasn’t exactly a bad thing, really, not looking like a snooty bitch – right?

Zach was trying to think of everything he knew about Fabius Gamp. Even with the small crib sheet that Vivianne had given him, it wasn’t a lot. Honestly, Zach’s best bet might have been to – well – act like his dad. He might not have been able to mimic Fabius to perfection, but he could probably manage Michael for a few hours at least.

“All right.” A completely unexpected voice came out of nowhere – Zach would be the first to admit that he was just as startled as everyone else when Isolde Macnair spoke behind him. For a brief moment, he wondered if they were busted even before they had begun. “Oh, calm down and stop being ridiculous; I needed to switch places with Isolde at Madam Puddifoot’s before I came here.”

There was something about the way she held her shoulders, the way she set her feet that convinced Zach that this was their anonymous compatriot (as Candice was so fond of putting it), even if Zach would never have imagined Vivianne in a gored miniskirt and jumper that was both low cut and cropped, leaving only a couple of inches between the bottom of the neck and the bottom of the jumper, in the exact shade of red as a Muggle Coke can. The only concession to the fall chill was a pair of black stockings, and even those wouldn’t – _couldn’t_ have helped much against the cold, because there were cutouts up the sides.

“Sorry, Miss Macnair, we _are_ ridiculous. You bought into the wrong game of poker if you wanted to avoid silliness.” Jon fluttered his lashes at her.

* * *

Vivianne glared at Jon. Usually when she glared like that at a young man, he’d gulp and look uncomfortable at worst. At best, he’d go running for the hills.

Jon just grinned. Apparently Isolde’s face was not made for glaring. Either that, or the problem lay with Jon. She’d have to find out when—

_When? When do you plan on spending any more time with this lot, Vivianne?_

Vivianne shook her head and pinched the bridge of her – Isolde’s – nose. “Right.” She opened up her bag, silently thanking Sybilla for teaching her extension charms. This wasn’t undetectable, not by a long shot, but it made the inside of the bag big enough to fit everything she’d needed.

She waved her wand and out floated six vials, five with a hair Spellotaped to them along with a label in a clear, even hand. The sixth vial had nothing taped to it – that was Rowan’s. “So, here are the vials. I also brought clothing for everyone, well, everyone except Rowan. We were going to need it anyway, so I—” She stumbled, and repeated more emphatically, “ _I_ used a Duplicating Charm to get you all … genuine outfits. Once we’re done, a Vanishing Charm ought to take care of them.”

She floated the outfits, neatly folded with underthings and all, over to their respective vials. Which were still floating in the middle of the circle. “Well, don’t all jump in at once now,” Vivianne said. “We only have …” She pushed up her sleeve and checked her watch – _her_ watch. Isolde usually didn’t wear a watch, and Vivianne was not leaving the timing of this operation to chance. “Two and a half hours until my potion wears off.”

“Who put her in charge?” Quill muttered to no one in particular. Vivianne simply raised an eyebrow at him. He scowled back.

She could not _wait_ to be herself again.

“Come on, guys, let’s get this started.” Aubrey stepped forward. “Zach—here’s Fabius. Candice, this is Antony. Quill, we’ve got Trish’s right here …”

_Wait. What? They’re not even …_

“Jon, this is Frida’s—”

_Oh, Merlin. They’re cross-dressing as well? This is going to end in disaster._

“And here’s Rowan’s for you, Blair – I put her hair in it for you – and,” Aubrey popped the cork off his vial, “here’s Thierry for me.” He dropped a single blonde hair into the vial.

Vivianne narrowed her eyes. Polyjuice Potion changed once the organic matter was added to it. She’d gotten a look at her own before Isolde drank it; it had been emerald green and faintly fizzy. Isolde’s had been a winking orange and very spicy to the taste.

Only two doses had the hairs added to them. But—she would not have expected Thierry’s to be pale blue and somewhat cloudy, like melted ice cream. Nor would she have expected Rowan’s to be the color and consistency of liquefied caviar.

“Bottoms—” Aubrey started.

“Wait! You’re going to want to change. _You_ especially,” she nodded to Candice. “I do not think your outfit will survive transforming into Antony.”

Candice looked down at her hooded shirt and Muggle denim trousers. “I don’t think the Incredible Hulk look would suit me, either …”

Vivianne didn’t ask. “Exactly. Off with anything you want to still have when you’re done.”

Nobody moved.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sakes! Conjure some changing screens and move!” Vivianne hissed.

She even turned around to make it easier.

There was a great deal of shuffling and some muttered spellwork, mostly from Aubrey and Blair. Vivianne tapped her foot and waited.

After a time period that felt like an eternity (but was really more like two minutes), Aubrey called, “Everyone ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Ready as we’ll ever be.”

“Let’s do this!” She was not surprised that the last one was Jon.

“Okay, then,” Aubrey said, “On three … one, two, three—bottoms up!”

Vivianne waited.

The Polyjuice transformation was silent. Vivianne wouldn’t know that it had worked until someone spoke.

All the same, she hadn’t been expecting Thierry’s voice to speak first. And she certainly wasn’t expecting what it said. “ _Aubrey_!”

“Yes, Blair?” asked … _Rowan_?

“You—what in Merlin’s name are you playing at?”

“I know more hexes than you do,” Rowan’s voice replied – or so Vivianne thought. Her cousin’s voice sounded quite different without the stutter. “And I’m sure you’d rather snog Jon than I would. It all works out.” A brief pause, then, “Um … any chance you can float Rowan’s glasses over here? I can’t see a bloody thing.”

_Oh … Merlin. This is going to be a disaster. A complete disaster. Why didn’t I just learn a Memory Charm, hit them all with it, and do this myself?_

Still, Vivianne bit her tongue and waited.

A few more moments passed, mostly filled with shuffling cloth – and Trish’s voice, swearing copiously about bra fasteners until Antony’s voice ordered Trish’s to hush and let Antony take care of it. Vivianne had to stuff her hand in her mouth at that one, though she knew she’d probably laugh herself to sleep about it tonight.

Finally, Rowan’s voice said, “ _Evanesco_! We’re ready, Vivianne. You can turn around.”

Vivianne turned around. Antony, Trish, Frida, Thierry, and Fabius stood in front of her – along with little Rowan, looking even more incongruous than usual in the middle of this hulking band of Slytherins. Thierry had was holding a pile of assorted clothing and stuffing it into a bag that Vivianne thought was probably Blair’s. Thierry handed the bag to Rowan.

Vivianne smirked.

“All right. So we have …” Vivianne pushed her sleeve up again. “Two hours and fifteen minutes until my potion wears off. The rest of you have … two hours and fifty, fifty-five, probably. So.” She let her sleeve fall. “No time to waste, then.”

She glanced at Zach – Fabius. He smiled. Even though it was Fabius’s smile, not Zach’s, Vivianne felt her lips twitch in response.

She reached for his hand – getting into character, of course. He stared at it. Then, slowly, he took it.

Vivianne didn’t gasp, because nobody gasped over a little bit of static electricity – and that was surely all it was. “Right. To Café Crépuscule.”

_And let’s hope this actually works._

* * *

Zach’s mother had at least attempted to teach him to be a gentleman, so sitting there staring right down the neck of Isolde’s jumper as he should be – needed to be – was difficult. He kept wanting to look away, give her at least the illusion of privacy. But he couldn’t. Certainly Fabius wouldn’t have – nor would Michael.

On the table between them, hidden by a pair of tiny candles and a single red rosebud in a tiny vase was – well – he wasn’t sure what they were called; they were something like an Extendable Ear, from the Wheezes, of course.

It was about the size of a fifty pence piece and was embossed with an ear on one side and an ever-changing W on the other. Quill and Candice had picked them up before reporting to the Shrieking Shack. Aubrey-as-Rowan would have another sitting on the counter next to – him? Her? This was damned confusing – only that one was identical to a Muggle coin, so Mr. Bellerose would not be suspicious.

According to Candice, with the occasional clarification by Quill, it amplified sound, like a Muggle “bug” but not an insect. And Rowan’s was a wire – but not a wire. Zach gave up on trying to keep it all straight. At least it was working. In between flirting with Vivianne, which hopefully only _seemed_ awkward to Zach, he could hear Aubrey making stammer-ridden small talk with café’s bartender while he – she – whatever nursed a Butterbeer and waited for Mr. Bellerose to show up.

“Huh,” Vivianne said in a low voice, tossing her hair and leaning toward Zach.

“Hmm?”

“The lead actress in our little drama is better than I was expecting.” Vivianne ran a finger, tipped in a talon-like nail, around the mouth of her Butterbeer bottle. “I wouldn’t have guessed it.”

“Well—some people have— _hidden_ talents?” Merlin! Fabius’s voice made _everything_ seem at once pompous and slummy.

Vivianne giggled and took a deep breath – apparently this was a hobby of Isolde’s. “Although there’s nothing wrong with—obvious talents, right?”

“Of course not.” Michael would have leered, so Zach leered – and tried to shove away the guilt that bubbled up in the wake of doing so.

“I thought the—villain was going to miss his cue though,” Zach said, trying to think of a way to give voice to what was troubling him without giving anything away. Not that there was actually anyone in the café who would have known one way or another, which was probably why Mr. Bellerose picked it. The two couples besides their little group were both from Hogsmeade, not students at all. They only had a couple of hours – they couldn’t afford for Mr. Bellerose to take his sweet time.

“Oh, a villain is never late.” Vivianne flipped her blonde ringlets and trailed a finger up Zach’s arm.

“Nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to?” Zach quoted softly, then could have shoved his fist into his mouth, if that wouldn’t have called more attention to it. Fabius wouldn’t have been quoting Muggle movies – or misquoting them slightly – after all it had been “a wizard” in the original quote.

“Well, having known a few—villains in my time …” Vivianne looked coy and slightly feline as she glanced at the counter out of the corner of her eye. “They certainly think that. If—he misses his cue—then he might not be the villain at all.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I’m always right; just ask anyone.” She took a shot of her Butterbeer, and then at least some of Zach’s worries were laid to rest – while others were shocked straight back to life –because the bell over the café door chimed and in stepped Mr. Bellerose.

He’d obviously taken a little more care with his dress than when he came to class, judging by the fine linen of his slacks and the soft cashmere of his jumper. Though that might just have been because digging around in ruins was hard on clothes. Zach didn’t like the smile he wore at all – and neither did Quill, apparently, because Candice loudly made a point of directing “Trish’s” attention back to “him.”

As the teacher’s assistant walked past, Mr. Bellerose looked at the bickering “Antony” and “Trish” and muttered – _charming_. He also took a moment to admire Isolde’s jumper, making Zach have to throttle down the impulse to stick a foot out from under the table. Fabius wouldn’t have cared – thus Zach could not care. And he definitely wouldn’t have cared as Mr. Bellerose settled in at the bar next to “Rowan” with a “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” So Zach forced himself to look somewhere – anywhere – else, and unfortunately – or perhaps not, all things considered – down Isolde’s jumper was as good a place as any.

* * *

“Well, I—w-w-wasn’t s-sure I’d c-come myself,” replied Aubrey/Rowan to Mr. Bellerose. “I—um—already g-got myself a d-d-drink …”

“And I hope you did not pay, mademoiselle?” Monsieur Bellerose asked. Vivianne watched as he smirked ever so carefully at Aubrey. “For today is—how do you English say it—my sweet?”

Zach sat up – and across the café, so did “Trish” and “Frida.” If it wouldn’t have given the game away, Vivianne would have smacked her forehead and groaned. Or hexed the lot of them.

“I think you mea—m-m-mean ‘m-my t-t-treat,’” Aubrey corrected in a tone that was far too flat for Rowan.

“Ah, yes, that.” Monsieur Bellerose nodded, appearing not to notice a thing. Vivianne smirked.

Zach was still watching Aubrey and Monsieur Bellerose, so Vivianne cleared her throat and rolled her shoulders, as she’d seen Isolde do dozens of times. And now that she was borrowing Isolde’s body for a bit, she could see why. Vivianne had known since she was in fourth year that she had nothing to complain about in the breasts department, but Isolde’s were truly in a category all their own.

As Vivianne had suspected, Zach’s gaze came back to her – and there was no way that any red-blooded male wouldn’t find a reason to watch the bright red jumper. Zach, however, was enough of a gentleman to blush faintly and try to drag his gaze up to Vivianne’s face.

Odd, that. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Fabius blush – and certainly not when he was staring down Isolde’s shirt.

“Relax,” Vivianne purred, reaching across and gently dragging her nails down Zach’s sleeve. “It’s only creepy if the owner of said …” She gestured to her – Isolde’s – jumper. “Ahem—doesn’t _want_ you looking.”

“And—um—does she?” asked Zach. Somehow, in Fabius’s voice, the sentence managed to sound like a verbal leer – probably because practically everything Fabius said to the opposite sex sounded like a verbal leer.

“What do you think?” Vivianne asked, resting her chin on her hand and batting her lashes. Isolde certainly wouldn’t mind the most handsome boy in their year looking down her jumper – and if she minded Fabius doing it, she would have said something by now. As for Vivianne …

_Why on earth would_ I _care who looks down Isolde’s jumper?_

As Zach tried and seemed to be failing not to melt into a puddle of awkwardness, a stammered sentence from the Weasley’s coin attracted Vivianne’s attention.

“A-a-actually, I w-want to g-go into Healer tr-training,” Aubrey was saying.

_Healer training? I suppose that does explain why she signed up for two more years of Professor Yaxley …_

“Healer training?” Monsieur Bellerose echoed. “Not archaeology? Are you certain?”

Carefully, from the corner of her eye, Vivianne watched as Aubrey shrugged and stared at his Butterbeer. He was certainly better at this than Vivianne would have given him credit for. “It’s—w-what I’ve always w-w-wanted to d-d-do.”

“Then why the class?” asked Monsieur Bellerose.

Vivianne’s eyes narrowed. Monsieur Bellerose was leaning closer, but not … _too_ close. Close enough to communicate interest, not so close to cause alarm. Aubrey leaned away anyway. Not quite right, Rowan would have been trying to make herself smaller – it was how she always reacted to Frida and Trish – but probably near enough to fool Monsieur Bellerose.

“Um—er—m-m-mostly b-because of my m-m-mum’s family. They—they s-say they’re related to M-M-Morgan le F-Fay—so I’ve always been—c-curious.”

“Your _mother’s_ family?” Monsieur Bellerose repeated. “Forgive me—but there is only one such family in Britain that I know of—and surely, if that is your mother’s family, you would also be …?”

“A G-G-Gorlois?” Aubrey replied. “No. They d-d-didn’t like my d-dad.”

“Did not like?” Monsieur Bellerose raised an eyebrow. “I did not think they bothered their heads much about the menfolk, the Gorloises.”

Aubrey shifted uncomfortably, so well that Vivianne couldn’t be sure if the discomfort was real or more play-acting. “Well—m-m-my d-d-dad’s a M-Muggle, so …”

“Ah, I see. You English, you place too much store in such things,” Monsieur Bellerose nodded. “Or at least, some of you do.”

“And—the F-French don’t?”

“We used to. But— _La Révolution_ , it did not just happen among the Muggles, you see. In France …” He shrugged. It was a very French shrug. “We are French first, wizards second, and pureblood, half-blood, etc. – third if at all.”

“… Interesting,” Aubrey answered. He took a long drink of his Butterbeer.

“Still, I find it—how do you say it— _ironic_ that the Gorloises, of you English, have a problem with a half-blood. Especially considering the first Rowanne,” Monsieur Bellerose went on.

Vivianne’s eyes went wide. She glanced at Zach – but he only looked puzzled.

“The—f-f-first Rowanne?” asked Aubrey, and Vivianne would have bet her last Galleon that the confusion in his voice was not acting.

“ _Oui_. You have not heard of her?” Monsieur Bellerose went on. “She was the daughter of Morgana herself.” He took a long swig of his own drink – probably drawing out the tension on purpose, making Aubrey – _Rowan_ – even more curious about what would come next. “And a half-blood, we would say today. Witch mother – Muggle father.”

And even though Vivianne knew she shouldn’t, even though she knew it might give the game away, she couldn’t help it.

She hissed.

_How the_ bloody hell _does he know_ that _?!_

* * *

“I-i-it was a d-d-different t-time t-then,” Aubrey said, scuffing his toe on the copper footrest, his body language such an exact match that even Zach, who had known her for years, would have sworn that it really was Rowan. The way he turned away and stared at the bar. The way his shoulders hunched in and tried to make his already-tiny frame smaller.

But his job was as much to make sure that _they_ weren’t found out by Bellerose as it was to watch Aubrey. He needed to remind himself that despite it _looking_ and _sounding_ like Rowan, it was Aubrey, who could and would take care of himself if need be.

And he needed to be doing _something_ , because Vivianne was glaring at Bellerose’s back in a way that he was almost certain Isolde wouldn’t be doing – especially as without the coins, they shouldn’t even have been able to hear Bellerose and Rowan.

He cleared his throat, using the moment to think of what his father would say in this set of circumstances. “I guess what they say about the French is true then?”

Vivianne blinked and her head shot back toward Zach. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Vivianne purred and flipped her hair again. And Zach tried really hard not to bite his lip as Vivianne went back to tracing the mouth on the butter beer bottle.

“It’s certainly looking that way.” Vivianne had mentioned that if Fabius didn’t have a tie, he’d be playing with his pocket watch, so Zach flipped open the watch and looked at it. It was new, expensive, and likely the sort of thing that Zach’s father would get him in three weeks for his own birthday.

“Awww,” Vivianne pouted, pushing Isolde’s lip out in a pout. “Don’t you trust me?” If Isolde had said it to Zach, he would have been caught between being truthful – no, he didn’t – and being polite – which would have been more like “it’s not that” to deflect the question.

But it wasn’t Isolde, and it didn’t feel like she was asking as part of their play-acting. It almost seemed like something of a challenge – and he felt like it was important how he answered this. He met Vivianne’s eyes, even shifted to Isolde’s dark blue, just shy of the amethyst color of Vivianne’s normally mismatched pair.

“Should I?” It was what Michael would have said – but with his own shifted eyes he tried his damnedest to tell her … he wasn’t sure what he was telling her. _Merlin I am_ bad _at this._

He, however, was not the _only_ one who was, because behind him – as Bellerose shifted a little closer to “Rowan” at the bar, asking date-y questions about her family and friends – Quill shifted in his seat, probably about two seconds from getting up and ruining everything, if the alarm on Vivianne’s shifted face was any indication.

He actually was out of his seat when Bellerose touched Aubrey’s hair. But Candice, apparently better at thinking on her feet than they’d given her credit for, caught Quill’s wrist, spun him around, and _kissed_ him straight on the mouth in a very un-Trish and Antony way – and for that matter, a very un-Quill and Candice way.

Jon made a gagging noise like a cat hacking up a hairball, exactly the way that Frida did when something disgusted her, and the two couples who were trying to enjoy a late lunch in the café started snickering.

Mr. Bellerose and Aubrey turned around to look at them, a grimace crossing Rowan’s features. Whether that was at Quill and Candice almost blowing it, or the fact that nobody really needed to see Antony’s tongue in Trish’s mouth … well, who knew.

* * *

_Oh, Merlin, that was too far. Tongues? Candice—no one needs to see you and Quill doing that—and NO ONE needs to see Antony and Trish doing that!_

It was not exactly as Isolde would have reacted – Isolde might well have applauded – but Monsieur Bellerose didn’t know that. Vivianne looked at the table until she judged it was safe to look back up again. She would have given Candice credit for quick thinking … but really, _tongues_?

When she did so, she met Zach’s eyes. His brows were slightly raised, and there was a very un-Fabius smile crossing his features.

Once again, Vivianne smiled back. And as she did so, she thought she felt something flutter.

Except … no, that couldn’t possibly be. Certainly not now. She didn’t have time for this now!

And she – well, technically – maybe …

But the flutter wasn’t new; she’d felt it before, not five minutes ago, when she’d asked Zach – yes, _she_ had asked _Zach_ , Isolde had not asked Fabius – whether he trusted her, and when he’d … looked at her. She hadn’t been able to read what she was trying to tell her, only that he was trying to tell it to her very desperately.

For all that the “Should I” had been pure Fabius, the message in his eyes had been anything but.

Vivianne took a deep breath and, even though it was a very un-Isolde action, she let her eyes drop to the table. She glanced at her watch.

_Oh … damn._

Between getting the rest of their little crew ready – Monsieur Bellerose’s lateness – and everything else – she was getting very close to running out of time.

Vivianne straightened and remembered where they were. “Fabius—we’d better get going if I’m going to meet Vivianne and Belle at Madam Puddifoot’s.”

“We—oh, right!” Zach nodded. He looked around and gestured for a waitress.

The waitress came, and Vivianne let Zach settle the bill – Isolde would have never paid her own way on a date. Hell, even Vivianne was more than happy to let Blake or her past boyfriends pay, most of the time. To do otherwise would just cause a pointless argument.

Finally, the bill was settled. Zach got up first and extended a hand to her. Vivianne let him “help” her out of her chair – ignoring the jolt of static electricity (what was it _with_ Zach and static?) – and hand-in-hand they left the café.

That would be everyone else’s cue to get going soon. Not all at once – and Jon and Blair wouldn’t be leaving until Aubrey had left, just to make sure Monsieur Bellerose didn’t try anything – but soon.

Vivianne and Zach stayed hand-in-hand as they walked down the High Street, because the street was thick with students and they couldn’t drop the mask now. Vivianne leaned close to whisper into Zach’s ear. “I’ll pay you back for the Butterbeer later.” She giggled at the end of it.

Zach turned to her with surprise in his eyes. But Vivianne winked – a sultry, saucy Isolde wink – and flipped her hair over her shoulder, knowing there wasn’t anything else Zach could say with so many witnesses.

They parted at the side street that led to Madam Puddifoot’s. They _should_ have left with a snogging session that would break breath-holding records from the world over, but Vivianne was fairly certain Zach would die of embarrassment if she tried it. So she leaned in and kissed him chastely – but lingeringly – on the cheek. “Thanks for the good time … and I’ll see you later.”

Vivianne stepped back. Zach was staring at her in something like surprise. She let go of his hand, winked again, and turned and was gone before he could do much reacting.

But even though she shouldn’t – Vivianne didn’t have time – she dug into her bag and found her compact mirror. She flipped it open, ostensibly to check her lipstick, but really …

Zach was still standing at the corner, watching her walk away. His free hand had gone up to his cheek.

Vivianne felt that flutter again.

_Oh, bloody hell, no! I do not have time for this!_

But she still felt herself smile as she put the compact mirror away.

Then she schooled her features into what she needed them to be and quickened her pace to Madam Puddifoot’s.

When she walked in – alone – Madam Puddifoot’s was it as ever was: frilly, feminine, and oppressively pink. The proprietress was standing near the door. “Can I get you a table, dear?” she asked in tones that practically dripped treacle.

“No, no, thank you, ma’am – I just need to talk to a friend – there she is!” Vivianne flashed Madam Puddifoot Isolde’s best “I’m too sweet to be believed” smile and hurried into the dining room.

She saw her quarry – that is to say herself – at a table with Blake, James, and Belle. James and Belle were on one side, with Belle being almost in James’s lap. Blake had his arm draped over the back of his partner’s chair, and Isolde-as-Vivianne was … well …

Vivianne almost sneered. _Do I actually look like that when I’m with a boy?_ Isolde had wedged her way into the crook of Blake’s arm and was looking up at him with an expression that was far too close to adoration for Vivianne’s taste.

_Don’t bloody ruin the masquerade now!_ Vivianne took a deep breath, took another to make her sound upset, and hurried to the table.

“Vivianne?” Vivianne asked. Isolde looked up. She wrapped her hands around themselves. “Do—do you have a minute? I’m sorry to interrupt, but—um—” She continued to fidget with her hands, making sure to push up her sleeve so Isolde could see her watch.

Belle was the first to sit up. “Isolde? Honey, what’s wrong?”

“It’s okay, Belle,” Isolde replied – _thank Merlin_. “I’ve got it. What’s wrong—Isolde?”

Vivianne bit her lip and nudged her head toward the ladies’ room. “Can we …”

“Of—of course,” Isolde replied. She sat up, but before she got up, she turned to Blake. “We’ll be _right_ back.” And she kissed him on the cheek – the same …

_Huh._

The same chaste but lingering kiss that she’d just given to Zach …

“Come on, Isolde, let’s get you sorted,” Isolde said, leading the way to the ladies’ room. Vivianne followed.

Was it just her imagination, or were her shoes starting to feel tighter?

They hurried into the ladies’ room, and of one mind they both climbed into a stall. Vivianne cast a Silencing Charm around it.

“How did it go—oh my! Vivianne, your hair—”

Vivianne fingered a ringlet – except it was going dark and straight in her fingers. “Quick! Your shirt— _my_ shirt is _not_ going to survive your breasts!”

“My skirt won’t survive your hips!” Isolde shot back, and maybe Vivianne deserved it. The girls started to strip, banging into each other while trying to account for the fact that their bodies were changing with every second.

It did flash across Vivianne’s mind that there were several young men in their house who probably would have paid to see the show.

But soon they were changed back, and they could exchange clothes without a word and put them back on again. “Sorry about the—breasts comment,” Vivianne said as she pulled her hair loose from her collar. “I—they’re a magnificent pair, honestly. But my shirt just isn’t cut for them.”

Isolde looked up with a grin. “I’ll forgive you – but only if you forgive me for the hips comment.”

“Done,” Vivianne answered.

“So,” Isolde asked, running her fingers through her blonde curls, “how did it go? Did you … do what you needed to do?”

Vivianne took a deep breath and nodded. “Oh—yes. Yes, indeed.” She shook her head. “How about you? Anything I should know?”

Isolde snickered. “Blake is a _really_ good snogger – and he’ll probably be looking for more, so enjoy it, Vivianne.” She winked. “But we didn’t talk about much. Well, I mean, _he_ talked a lot … mostly about himself … but I wasn’t really listening. Just looking at him adoringly seemed to do the trick.”

“ _Adoringly_?” Vivianne asked, nose wrinkling.

“Well, you know. For a given value of adoringly.” Isolde continued making minute adjustments to her shirt. “Fabius should be back at the castle?”

“Should be,” Vivianne replied. “And—thank you. Once again.”

“Not a problem.” Isolde’s grin widened. “Anytime you need someone to pretend to be you to snog Blake, you let me know.”

“Heh,” Vivianne replied. She took the Silencing Charm off the stall, and the two of them left the ladies’ room.

Belle still looked concerned when they came up, but Isolde’s smile seemed to mollify her – for the moment. She still shot a quizzical look at Vivianne.

_I’ll tell you later,_ Vivianne mouthed. Belle nodded.

Isolde said goodbye and left the tea shop in much better spirits than she had been when “she” arrived. As for Vivianne, she took the seat Isolde had vacated.

Blake lifted his arm in mute invitation. Vivianne smiled at him and contorted herself into the pose Isolde had held. _Merlin, this is uncomfortable,_ Vivianne thought, still trying to look up at Blake in … well, the closest she could come to adoration. _What was Isolde thinking?_

“So …” Vivianne asked with a throaty chuckle. “Where were we?”

Blake just laughed. “Oh—here and there, Vivianne.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead.

Vivianne smiled faintly. But all she could think was, _Merlin … pretending to be me for the next hour is going to be harder than pretending to be Isolde was …_

_Wait._

_Pretending?_


	21. Chapter 20: At Last I See the Light

**Chapter 20: At Last I See the Light**

Ben had never really thought of himself as a social person; after all, he’d spent eleven summers on a ranch over ten miles from the nearest town – and Prairie Dog Fork wasn’t much of a town if you came right down to it. Two stop signs, a double handful of shops, a church, a café, a library, a museum, and a school that ran K-12. For the first five years, between six and eleven, he’d gotten up every morning, done his milking and fed whatever animals were under his purview, washed up, eaten breakfast, and walked the quarter mile to the end of the road where the bus would pick him up. Unless it was snowy – then either Uncle Chester or Aunt Mary-Anne would drive him to the corner and stay until the bus came.

Desi had walked with him for the first two years. But she was three years older than he was, and at twelve, she had gone off to wizarding school, and he’d made the walk alone.

He’d have guessed he was probably alone more than he was really with other people. It was this that made wandering around Hogsmeade by himself – and the keen loneliness he felt as he did so – peculiar.

Maybe it was because he was by himself, but he wasn’t alone. There were students all around him, and most of them knew who he was, at least by reputation – and stature. He might not have been the tallest student, but he was by far the most muscular student. Even the Slytherin beaters – who were built like bricks – were a poor second. But he didn’t care to intrude on any of the other students, even those who might have welcomed Ben. He could deal with lonely, but he felt unwelcome and inclusion by sufferance a little more keenly than most.

His aunt and uncle had never made him feel unwelcome; Uncle Chester might not have been Ben’s father, but for all of his faults, excluding Ben had never been one. He was pretty sure that if Chester and Mary-Anne had had a son, Ben would have been treated exactly the same as that theoretical cousin. He was treated the same as Desi was, after all. The same allowance and chores, the same clothing budget, the same lectures and scoldings.

To his uncle’s family, the most Muggle Muggles he’d ever met, he was just another little hellion running around the reunions. Another young’un to take fishing and camping. Even if he wasn’t their blood, he was their kin. They might not have said it in words, they said it in action – and that counted for a lot more.

And though he barely remembered his grandparents and living with them, what he did remember was always a feeling of them wanting him. Maybe it was something like having Aiden back, though Ben didn’t look very much like his father.

But that was only the Moores and the Kains.

The Corbies – besides C. Madeline’s insistence upon having a couple visits a year, for what reason, Ben couldn’t guess, considering she seemed to detest Ben’s company and treated the visits with the same quiet contempt his cousin treated visits to the gynecologist, as something necessary for some reason, but something she hated all the same – did not seem to consider him as family or kin. He had an aunt, his aunt’s husband, a biological uncle, and three cousins, not to mention extended family that probably couldn’t pick him out of a police lineup.

So he’d just wander the streets of Hogsmeade and look at the little picturesque village of Tudor cottages with grass roofs, with – as Chuck Berry so excellently put it – no particular place to go. And when he got tired of walking, he’d head to the Three Broomsticks and get a Butterbeer or two, then go find some fudge, even if he’d be paying for it in extra exercise all week.

It wouldn’t be the most exciting Hogsmeade weekend on record, but it would be enough for Ben.

* * *

“So, Rowan,” asked her mother, put an arm around Rowan’s shoulders, “I somehow get the idea that there’s something you’re not telling me …” Elaine hugged Rowan a little more closely, smirking down at her with a raised eyebrow. “Any idea why that would be?”

Rowan tried to smile, but it was a small smile, gone quickly. She tucked a sheaf of hair behind her ear, shrugged, and glanced at the ground. “P-probably because it’s t-true.”

She could be honest with her mum about things like this. Her dad was strict – probably because Rowan being a witch and a girl was a bit more than he felt he could handle. They could nerd out together, and when Rowan wasn’t pushing boundaries they got on fine. But on anything chancy … Elaine was better.

“And why is that?” Elaine asked, gasped, pretending to sound scandalized. “For Merlin’s sake! I’m your mother! I’m not going to run off for a nice, long gossip session with Rita Skeeter so she can put all your deepest secrets on the front page of the _Prophet_.”

Rowan snorted. “Doesn’t Harry s-swear he’d f-fire anyone who t-talked to her?”

“And give a bonus to anyone who hexed her without getting caught? He might have said that. Once or twice. _Possibly_ after having a bit too much firewhisky.” Elaine winked. “But you didn’t hear my boss’s secrets from me.”

“Of c-course not, Mum,” Rowan chuckled.

“That being said, I’m not too worried about my boss’s secrets … more worried about my daughter’s.” Elaine looked down, frowning. Elaine was tall, and of all the things Rowan had inherited from her mother … height wasn’t one of them. Sometimes Rowan wondered if she had gotten much of anything from her mother, other than the emerald eyes. Elaine was tall, raven-haired, and striking; Rowan was short, blond, and sort of average all around. And in terms of personality …

The less said about that, the better.

Rowan tried to smile, but was interrupted by a small yip from their feet. “See?” Elaine pretended to gasp. “Jack wants to know, too!”

“S-silly Jack.” Rowan bent to scratch the Crup behind the ears. Jack’s stump of a tail wagged enthusiastically, and he stood on his hind legs so he could lick her hand. “But—um—there are t-two things, Mum. And—one’s a boy.”

She was chickening out and she knew it. But she didn’t want to bring up Mr. Bellerose to her mother – not yet. The best case scenario was that her mother would tell her that she was overreacting and that Mr. Bellerose’s behavior was nothing to worry about. Worst case …

Rowan didn’t want to consider worst case.

“A boy?” Elaine asked. “Say on.”

“Um …” Rowan swallowed, and Elaine didn’t try to hurry her along. “His—his n-name is Ben. And he’s a Gryffindor—”

“A Gryffindor? Excellent choice. Keep going.” Elaine nodded.

“ _M-Mum_ ,” Rowan sighed. “He—d-do you r-remember how I wrote t-to you about—about the b-boys who ran Professor Rove’s p-pants up the flagpole?”

“Do I remember? Do I _remember_? Rowan, I brought that letter in to work with me! I thought Artemis was going to suffocate before I finished reading your description!” Elaine raised an eyebrow. “Is he … one of the boys responsible for that?”

Rowan nodded.

“Well,” Elaine replied, “you’d certainly never lack for entertainment.”

“Yeah, b-b-but—I m-mean, he’s r-really nice,” Rowan stumbled, “he—he _is_ —we usually end up p-p-partnered in the archaeology c-c-class, b-because B-Beau and L-Lucinda are t-too b-busy s-snogging—and he’s always s-so n-nice—and he seems to—well, l-l-like me—but j-j-just as a f-f-friend, which is the p-p-problem, because—w-well …” Rowan could do nothing other than throw her arms out and shrug.

“Rowan … sweet …” Elaine’s brows had furrowed and her grip on Rowan’s shoulders tightened. “Don’t you sell yourself short, ok? You have a lot to offer anybody – and you know, as funny as he is, if he thinks running the headmaster’s pants up a flagpole is a good idea? Having a girl with brains around might not be a bad option for him.”

“ _Mum_! He’s p-plenty smart himself!”

“There’s smart and there’s smart, sweet,” Elaine answered, tapping Rowan’s nose. “Trust me, I waited far too long to figure … that … out …”

Elaine’s eyes had narrowed, and she focused on something a long way off and – as far as Rowan could tell – above Rowan’s head. Which didn’t narrow things down at all, really. “M-Mum?” Rowan asked, but she was already trying to follow the line of her mother’s gaze.

She saw it immediately: a silvery shape galloping through the air, barely able to be distinguished from the clouds – unless you knew what you were looking for. Which Rowan did, having seen this shape twice before. “M-M-Mum?” Rowan gasped.

Elaine was softly swearing, swearing that continued as the shape became clearer – and as the other students and people in the streets saw it, and pointed and gasped. Rowan took a step back, trying to get out of the way before the stag – the Patronus – could land on top of her.

When the Patronus landed, it spoke quickly. _“Alert called in. All Aurors to report to headquarters immediately. Code Horntail.”_ And then, without warning, it winked out of existence.

“Bloody _hell_!” Elaine snapped. “Damn it, what the hell happened this time? Rowan, sweet, I’m so sorry, but—”

“Mum, don’t! Just go. It sounds urgent!”

“It is. I’m _so_ sorry, sweet!” Elaine ducked in and gave Rowan a quick kiss on each cheek. “Take Jack home for me?”

“Of c-course. Go, go!” Rowan took the lead from her mother and shooed her off.

Elaine didn’t answer. She just smiled – then she turned in place and disappeared with a _crack_ that must have carried clear down the street.

Rowan let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. Then she swallowed.

Then she realized that everyone was staring at her – and Jack.

“Woof?” Jack asked, standing on his hind legs and pawing at Rowan’s knee. She bent down and scratched him behind the ears.

“It’s okay, b-b-boy,” she murmured, hoping that if she petted the dog long enough, people would stop staring.

When she looked up, she saw that wasn’t going to happen. Rowan gulped, then, head down, hurried down the street, Jack trotting by her side.

Maybe if she hurried, maybe if she got Jack back home quickly – maybe then people would forget seeing the Patronus or that they’d seen it near Rowan.

Rowan swallowed and kept walking, trying not to think too hard about what the Patronus meant, or what Code Horntail meant. At least it wasn’t Code Threstal. She’d seen the look on her mother’s face once when Code Threstal came in, and she never wanted to see that look again.

Unfortunately, the problem with hurrying while embarrassed – at least for Rowan – was that doing so meant she didn’t quite watch where she was going. She made it about half a block before she smacked into someone.

“Oh! I s-s-s-so s-s-sorry—” she started.

And stopped dead.

“B-B-B-Ben,” Rowan gasped. “H-h-h-hi.”

* * *

“Hey,” Ben said with a quick smile. He glanced at the dog dancing around Rowan’s legs and now Ben’s, wrapping the leash – which was the exact shade of Gryffindor scarlet – around them both. “Nice—dog?” It could have been a Jack Russell terrier, or it could have been a Crup; Kasumi raised them.

“C-Crup,” Rowan corrected, starting to shift as if she were going to take a step back. He put a hand on her shoulder to stop her, then stepped over the leash that was looped around his legs and gestured for her to unwind herself.

She did so, her face flushed nearly the same color as the leash, and staring down at the ground, which at least allowed her to untangle herself from the knot with little trouble.

“I’d wondered. Cam’s mom raises Crups.” He bent down to offer his hand to the brown and white dog-like creature.

“Jack. He’s m-m-my m-m-mum’s,” Rowan supplied.

“Pleased t’meetcha, Jack,” Ben said, scratching behind Jack’s ears. He was rewarded with a licked hand. “I’m a cat person, personally, but I do find I miss dogs sometimes at school.”

“O-oh?” Rowan asked, glancing down at Jack.

“Yeah—Desi’s pit bull, Mal, refuses to sleep alone. So if she isn’t home—he comes and sleeps in my room—usually on the bed—with his ass in my face.” Rowan giggled.

“Pit bull?” she asked curiously.

“Despite the reputation, Mal is a sweetheart. He’s protective, especially of Desi – I think he’s chased off more of Desi’s boyfriends than Uncle Chester and his gun collection – but I’ve never seen him do more than growl, bark, and chase. Also rather like Uncle Chester.” Ben laughed. “My aunt has a pair of border collies, but Darth Brooks and Admiral Ack sleep in their kennels in the study.”

“Darth B-Brooks?” Rowan asked, obviously puzzled, but with a smile anyway.

“It’s a play on Garth Brooks—he’s a country singer—and of course Darth Vader.” Ben shrugged. “My family’s fond of obscure pop-culture references like that. Mal is short for Malcolm Browncoat Reynolds.”

“O-oh. Who is M-M-Malcolm Browncoat R-Reynolds?” Rowan asked.

“You don’t know _Firefly_? And here I thought you were a geek, Rowan; you know all of my other geek-based pop-culture references.” Ben put a hand to his chest in an injured manner.

“B-Brit.” Rowan shrugged. “That—that d-d-does excuse me, r-r-right?”

“Yes, it’s an American show—though if you have a chance to see it, do. It’s a great show,” Ben told her.

“Well, a l-lot of B-B-British t-t-telly does …” She trailed off.

“Make it across the pond and then proceed to get fu—screwed up by Hollywood?” Ben shrugged. “‘We might not invent a thing, but we can figure out how to fuck it up and sell more of it,’” Ben quoted.

“N-now, why did you st-st-stop yourself from c-c-cursing before and then t-t-turn around and d-do it anyway a m-m-moment later?” Rowan asked with primness that was belied by the smile at the corner of her lips.

“Because that’s the way the quote goes. It’s from Richard Jenni’s _A Big Steaming Pile of Me_.” Ben told her.

“Of c-c-course—and b-better p-p-profanity than a m-misquote.”

“I don’t make the rules, Ms. O’Blake ma’am, I jest follows ‘em.” Ben’s grin was unrepentant and Rowan glanced up at it, then glanced down and away, her cheeks blooming with a blush. “Anyway, back to your question—Malcolm Reynolds is the captain of Serenity, the ship in _Firefly_. A Browncoat is a _Firefly_ fan, after the brown dusters worn by Independence faction members as a uniform. Not to be confused with Brownshirt, which is a Nazi reference.”

“Ah. S-s-sounds like my d-d-dad’s f-friends who are Whovians. All the r-r-references. I’ve n-never g-g-gotten into _Dr. Who_ m-m-much.”

“School cut into your geeking? Silly school,” Ben joked.

“I g-g-guess Admiral Ack is sh-short f-for Admiral Ackbar?” Rowan asked after nodding. Ben answered with a nod.

“Me, I name my pets after characters in John Wayne movies.” Ben told her after a moment of Jack barking and running around in circles.

“John W-W-Wayne movies?” Rowan frowned slightly. “He w-was in—um—T-True—true …” She snapped her fingers.

“ _True Grit_? Yep. That’s him.”

“Y-yeah.” Rowan nodded. “My d-d-dad has it.”

“Your dad is into Westerns?” Ben blinked.

“No—n-n-not exactly—he—a f-f-friend of my dad’s r-recommended _True Grit_ b-b-because my d-dad is into Kubrick and g-g-gritty—anti-hero m-movies l-like—like that,” Rowan said.

“Well, yeah, I can see it.” Ben said. Jack barked again and tugged Rowan half off her feet. “So you have your mom’s Crup; where’s your mom?”

“Oh—she h-h-had to g-g-go b-back to L-L-London all of a s-s-sudden. I should p-p-probably take Jack b-b-back to the h-house,” Rowan said.

“Right. I can let you do that,” Ben said with a shrug. “I was just knocking around anyway.”

“Well—if—if all y-y-you were d-d-doing was w-w-wandering around—you c-could—my m-m-mum’s h-h-house is up that w-w-way—not f-f-far. You d-d-didn’t f-finish telling m-m-me about your p-p-pets—is all.” Ben blinked. “My plans were k-k-kinda—well—I had intended to s-s-spend the afternoon w-w-with my m-m-mum—and avoid C-C-Café Crépuscule,” she added in a mutter.

“Why?” Ben asked, falling into step beside Rowan like their twice-weekly treks to the ruins.

“I d-d-don’t g-get to s-s-spend much t-t-time with my m-m-mum—I l-l-live w-w-with my d-d-dad, in London. My m-m-mum’s an Auror,” Rowan explained.

“No, no, I got that—or at least I guessed you didn’t live with your mom. I meant why avoid the café?”

* * *

“Oh. Um …” Rowan licked her lips, pushing her hair behind one ear as they walked. Just thinking about Café Crépuscule made her stomach tie in knots. And if she brought it up to Ben – well, _actually_ brought it up to Ben as opposed to muttering too loudly – then she might have to deal with it.

Although, all things considered, it was probably better to bring it up to Ben than, say, her mother. Ben wouldn’t storm into Café Crépuscule and hex Mr. Bellerose, or turn him into a donkey, or do any number of things that her mother might have done if she’d taken what Rowan had to say about him … _badly_.

“W-w-well—uh …”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Ben said.

Rowan looked up at him. He was smiling, slightly, but beyond that he looked earnest. “N-n-no—it’s okay. It’s j-j-just …” She shrugged and tried to be as offhand as possible. “Mr. B-B-Bellerose t-t-told me he’d b-b-be there—s-s-so I w-w-won’t b-be.”

Ben’s eyes went wide. “You mean he …”

Rowan nodded.

“Look, Rowan,” Ben said, putting a hand on her elbow. Rowan’s heart skipped a beat. “I’m not—I’m not trying to tell you what to do here—but you might want to think about telling somebody. Zanetti maybe, or your head of house—hell, my head of house! I know Lipskit’s scary, but that’s the point. And if you want me to go with you and be your ‘yes-man’ and agree with everything I know to be true, I’m totally up for that.”

Rowan watched him talk and tried to think. She had a sneaking suspicion that he was talking sense. But it was hard to get the sense past the pounding of her heart and the fluttering of her stomach and—

“Oh—um, sorry,” he said, seeming to notice that he’d touched her.

And the crushing disappointment.

Ben put his hands into his pockets with far too much force for Rowan’s liking. Rowan swallowed and looked at the cobblestones. Jack saw her looking and barked softly.

She tried to smile, even though she knew she was turning red. “It’s okay, b-boy,” she murmured. “And—um,” she took a deep breath and looked back up at Ben. “It’s—it’s okay. And—um—y-y-you—I think—there’s my m-m-mum’s house,” Rowan finished, seeing the cheerful cottage come into view.

Ben turned to where Rowan was gesturing, and Rowan wasn’t sure whether to sigh in relief or kick herself in frustration.

Jack saw the cottage too, and it was a good thing he was such a small dog, because the way he tugged at the lead made it very clear that he was looking forward to a bowl of food and perhaps a treat when he got in. As it was, Rowan stumbled forward a step before righting herself.

“C-c-come on,” she said, using her wand to open up the front gate and leading Ben up the path. The gardens, such as they were, were already bare and brown – the Herbologists Elaine hired having gotten everything ready for winter. “You—you c-c-can c-c-come in if you w-want—I j-j-just have to make sure J-J-Jack is f-f-fed – I d-d-don’t know how long M-M-Mum will b-b-be.” Anything that called for an all-Auror alert wasn’t likely to be handled in ten minutes.

_Or even if the crisis is sorted in ten minutes – the paperwork won’t be._

“All right.” Ben nodded.

Rowan bit her lip, wondering if she’d offended him by not answering directly. But she had to get them into the house before she figured that out.

As they approached the front step, Rowan turned to Ben with a blush. “Would—would you m-m-mind t-turning around? M-M-Mum’s security is kind of—t-t-tight.”

Ben smiled slightly. “Can’t imagine why.” He gamely turned around.

Rowan sighed with relief before turning back to the door. She’d never tried this nonverbally before, but … surely it would work, right? _Alohomora_ , she thought.

The knocker was in the shape of a Greek comedy mask. It blinked once, then asked in a deep, brassy voice, “Password?”

Rowan stepped a little closer and whispered, “F-Falmouth Falcons.”

The lock clicked open and Rowan turned the knob. “We’re g-g-good, B-Ben.”

“All right,” Ben said. Rowan led the way—well, technically, Jack led the way into the house, barely giving Rowan a chance to unclip the lead from his collar before he scampered off to the kitchen.

Rowan shook her head and shrugged. “That C-Crup—I s-s-swear, the only thing he thinks about is f-f-food.”

“He’s a dog—well, a dog-like creature. Pretty sure it’s part of the territory,” Ben answered with a wink.

“T-t-true,” Rowan replied. “Anyway—k-k-kitchen’s in b-b-back. C-can I get you anything? M-M-Mum’s always got p-p-pumpkin j-juice and B-Butterbeer on hand.”

“Nah, I’m fine,” Ben replied. Rowan nodded, and they headed down the hallway.

The hallway was relatively long and narrow – although that might have just been because it was crowded. Pictures lined both of the walls, laughing and waving. The end tables studded here and there didn’t help. Rowan was extra careful walking past the table with the Stunner, an ingenious little device invented by one of her mother’s friends. It looked like a small statuette of a house-elf, but unlike any house-elf the world had ever seen, it was wearing a World War II-era helmet and was perched on the back of a wizard’s best approximation of a machine gun.

She was so busy being careful that she didn’t notice she’d lost Ben until he spoke. “Is that you?”

Rowan looked up. “Huh?”

Ben was standing next to one of the biggest pictures in the hall. He nodded to it. “Is that you?”

“Oh – um – y-yeah.” Rowan walked back and smiled at the picture. She had been not quite five when the picture was taken. In it, she stood – well – played in the surf at St Ives, laughing and shrieking as the waves crashed around her. With her was a tall man with graying blond hair, a merry laugh, and a bathing dress straight out of the 1920s.

“And … he’s …” Ben nodded to the older man.

“G-Granddad,” Rowan answered. “My m-m-mum’s d-dad. He—um—he d-died in the war.”

“Oh—jeez, Rowan, I didn’t mean to—”

“N-no, no, n-no,” Rowan said as quickly as she could. “I m-m-mean—um—M-M-Mum loves this p-p-picture. I l-l-like it a l-lot, t-t-too. It’s—h-how we l-l-like to r-r-remember h-him.” Rowan shrugged.

As Rowan spoke, a huge wave came crashing in the picture. Granddad grabbed picture-Rowan by both hands and swung her over the wave, picture-Rowan laughing all the way.

“You were close?” Ben asked.

“The—the G-G-Gorloises d-d-disowned us,” Rowan replied. “But—G-G-Granddad never d-did.”

Ben nodded. He seemed about to say something – but was cut off by a bark.

Rowan sighed and rolled her eyes. “S-s-sorry. J-J-Jack really wants f-f-feeding.” She turned to the kitchen—

And she wasn’t being careful this time. She wasn’t watching where she was going. She didn’t see Jack’s squeaker toy left lying in the middle of the hallway.

So, all things considered, Rowan was not terribly surprised when she tripped over it and went crashing to the ground, taking out a table on the way down.

The table that held the Stunner.

_OH SHIT!_

* * *

Ben had about two seconds to dive out of the way of the – whatever the fuck that was – on the table before it started shooting out spells. He had no idea what kind of spells they were, only that since he was standing as he was in an Auror’s hallway – with tight security – and that thing looked like a house-elf with a WWII fetish, he could guess they were not anything he wanted to get hit with. He did the sort of dive into the next room that showed up in action movies all the time, finding an ottoman and ducking behind it.

“How do you shut it off?” he called to Rowan.

Rowan looked dazed for a moment – then crawled over to the – whatever it was – and did – something. Ben had ducked down behind the ottoman again as a spell whizzed over his head, so whatever it was, he wasn’t paying any attention.

Ben popped his head up and looked at Rowan who was sitting on the floor, her arms pulled around her jean clad knees, huddled in on herself.

“I assume—as that thing isn’t taking my head off—that it’s safe to come out?” Ben asked. Rowan nodded, miserably. The little Crup – undeterred and apparently irrepressible even by house-elves shooting spells out of machine guns – bounced around Rowan. He put his pointed little paws on Rowan’s shoulder and licked at her face before bouncing down and running in crazy circles.

Rowan sniffled.

“Rowan, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Ben asked, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Rowan and putting a tentative hand on Rowan’s shoulder.

“I-I-I am s-s-s-s-such a k-k-kl-klutz!” she sobbed.

“It makes life more interesting,” Ben offered.

“I c-c-can’t even w-w-walk across a r-r-room w-w-without half d-d-destroying it.”

“Makes it easier for your friends and family to redecorate on the fly.” Ben rubbed her shoulder.

“It’s a g-g-g-good t-t-t-thing I’ll _never_ g-g-g-get a d-d-d-d-date to M-M-M-Madam P-P-P-Puddifoot’s; I’d b-b-burn the p-p-place d-d-down.” Rowan pushed her hair out of her face, which prompted Jack to start trying to wash it again, his stubbed tail wagging furiously.

“Quick, we need to get you to Madam Puddifoot’s, ASAP. According to all my friends, burning that fucker down is _exactly_ what this town needs.”

Rowan stared at him for a long moment before chuckling – but all too quickly the chuckle turned to sobs.

“N-no, no. T-t-t-the only p-p-person who has _ever_ s-s-s-shown any interest in m-m-m-me is—is a-a-a paedophile!”

“Meh, even a broken clock is right two or three times a day.” Ben shrugged.

“Twice,” Rowan corrected primly before sobbing again.

“It’s a quote,” Ben told her with a quirk of a smile, which she watched for some reason, before digging in her bag for a tissue. “The point still stands—just because Mister ‘I’m so French I piss Chardonnay and crap out Jerry Lewis movies’ is creeping on you like Michael Myers does his sister—only with hopefully less butcher knives—doesn’t mean that he’s the only guy who has any interest in you. Don’t sell yourself short.” He flicked at Rowan’s hair, which had fallen over her profile, so he couldn’t see it.

“Now—my cousin would remind you that your worth as a person has nothing to do with how many dicks get hard when you walk in the room.”

“S-s-s-she w-w-w-wouldn’t.”

“If my cell got reception here, I would straight up call her and let her say it herself,” Ben told her.

“B-B-But I’m not even _p-p-pretty_.” Rowan hunched back in on herself.

“Says who?” Ben asked, curiously. “Actually, I think you look a lot like Taylor Swift—if shorter—and nobody’d say _she_ wasn’t pretty. And besides, despite society’s fascist beauty standards and insistence that beauty is everything—even if no one can achieve it—pretty isn’t everything. Look at Frida. If beauty were relative to kindness, Frida’d be somewhere between a hag and a crocigator.”

“Don’t you mean crocodile—or alligator?” She didn’t even stammer it in her puzzlement.

“Now, I can handle the almost getting hexed, the sobbing, the clumsiness, all that—but if you’re gonna be a grammar Nazi, I’m packing up and going home.” Ben sniffed and tossed his head.

Rowan stared at him for a long moment then started giggling again.

He smiled. “I bet if you could see yourself when you laugh, you wouldn’t think you weren’t pretty,” he told her. She opened her mouth—something like stubbornness crossing her features. “If all you’re going to say is ‘you’re just saying that,’ allow me to point out I never just say stuff. You start saying things because it’s expected of you—well—it’s a slippery slope.”

“I-I-I g-g-g-guess.” Rowan shook her head and looked down at her hands, which apparently was invitation for Jack to jump up and try and lick her face again—only this time he missed and smeared his tongue straight across her glasses. “J-J-Jack!”

“Here.” Ben said, plucking the glasses from her nose. “I got it.” He polished the glasses on the hem off his red and white rugby shirt as Rowan grabbed Jack and buried her face in his fur. “See, even your mom’s pup wants you to feel better. I mean, unless of course you like being miserable—then by all means.”

“He just wants me to get up and get him a treat,” Rowan said, muffled in the Crup’s fur.

“Hey, cupboard love is still love.” Ben shrugged. “Even if he only loves you because you give him treats, as long as you’ve got treats—you’ve got love.”

Rowan lifted her head out of Jack’s fur and looked at Ben – the Crup squirmed away and dashed down the hall. Ben should have been handing Rowan back her glasses – but – there was something about the way that Rowan’s eyes looked – like her glasses were – some sort of mask. He reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear.

It seemed like every heartbeat was paired with another thing to notice. The sandy color of her eyelashes as she blinked at him. The wood floor warm under his palm as he leaned over toward her. A faint mole or beauty mark near her left eye. Jack’s nails ticking on tile – then wood – then tile as he danced in a crazy circle somewhere … off that way.

He heard Jack bark – just barely – over the way his heart was pounding, as he came close enough to Rowan that she could see him even without the glasses. He looked just for a moment into her eyes, fingers just lightly touching her chin as she started to drop her eyes and look away. He would have jerked his hand back – would have stopped this crazy train somehow – if she’d continued to look away.

But her eyes shot straight back to his like a magnet.

Her head tipped just a little to one side – like it did when she was puzzled – but puzzlement wasn’t what he saw in her face at all. She blinked slowly once-twice-three times; then her eyes closed right before his lips touched hers.

* * *

Ben’s lips were soft. And the kiss was gentle, like the faintest caress of a summer breeze or a slow, soaking rain. His fingers just brushed her chin, light as a whisper. And there was no sound at all.

But behind Rowan’s eyelids were fireworks.

It seemed to last forever – but it was over too soon. Ben was the one to lean back slowly. Rowan blinked and opened her eyes. She couldn’t read his expression – already he’d moved back far enough that everything was sort of a blur.

Rowan leaned her head against the wall, heart pounding.

_He just … kissed me …_

_HE JUST KISSED ME!_

She felt the grin before she consciously willed it. She couldn’t make a sound. But if there had been room – and if the attempt wouldn’t be practically suicide – she would have been doing cartwheels down the hall.

She hugged her knees to her chest and kept grinning.

“Um … Rowan?”

Rowan looked up.

“Got your glasses,” Ben said. Yes, she could see them now, sort of, or at least she could see the two oblong black blurs surrounding slightly-differently-blurred centers.

“Oh—th-th-thanks,” Rowan said, wondering how she found her voice as she took her glasses and put them back on. Good as new. She edged a little nearer to Ben. “And—um—th-th-thanks. F-f-f-for …” Realizing she’d never be able to force the rest of the sentence out, she pushed herself up and kissed him on the cheek. “Th-that.”

Ben blinked – but he rubbed his cheek and smiled. “First time I’ve had someone thank me for kissing them …”

Rowan shrugged. “Well—um—aren’t you s-s-supposed t-t-to thank someone who d-d-does s-s-something n-nice for you?”

He tilted his head a little to one side, and – Ben had a _very_ good poker face. She couldn’t have read his expression if she had a dictionary to help her. “You … thought that was just being nice?”

_Oh … shit._ Rowan’s stomach dropped. “N-n-n-no—at l-l-least—I h-hope it w-w-wasn’t.”

And Ben smiled.

“Good,” he answered. If there had been any space between them to close, he might have moved closer. “‘Cause it wasn’t.”

He leaned in, and this time, knowing what was coming, Rowan met him halfway.

There were still fireworks. And Ben was still very, very gentle. But now Rowan had something of a clue. She could put her hand on Ben’s shoulder, tilt her head a little to one side, try to … not make a fool of herself …

When they parted, this time, Ben was smiling. Rowan grinned again. She reached for his hand and held it. And she leaned her head on – well – not _quite_ his shoulder, but his upper arm.

Ben’s grip on her hand was as strong as hers on his.

“S-s-so,” Rowan asked, “d-d-does—um—d-d-does this m-m-mean w-w-we’re g-g-going out?”

For a second Ben didn’t answer. Then he drawled, slowly, “Well, that depends, Ms. O’Blake.” Rowan looked up to see him looking at her with a raised eyebrow. “Are you askin’ me out?”

Rowan’s jaw fell. But there was a twinkle in Ben’s eye and a smile just poking at the corner of his lip. So she swallowed and forced herself to say, “Y-y-y-yes. I am.”

Ben grinned back. “Then I accept—so I guess that means we are.”

Rowan giggled and leaned back against his arm. Ben squeezed her hand.

There was no telling how long they might have sat like that, except a cold, wet nose pressed itself into Rowan’s neck, making her jump. “J-J-Jack!”

Jack stepped back and yipped, stump wagging and sad Crup face in full force.

Rowan sighed, grabbed her wand, and started waving it. “ _Accio_ Jack’s bowl! _Accio_ Crup food!”

Proving that Jack was a language expert insofar as it got him fed, he stood on his hind legs and barked.

The Crup food bag and Jack’s bowl came flying from the pantry and kitchen respectively, and a few more waves of Rowan’s wand transferred the food from one to the other – and sent both back where they had come from, Jack chasing the bowl and barking in protest.

“S-s-so,” Rowan asked, turning back to Ben, “w-w-where were w-w-we?”

Ben swallowed. “Well, um … I was jest realizin’ that your mom has a lot of pictures.”

Rowan looked up, following his gaze around the walls. “Sh-she does,” Rowan agreed. “And … it k-k-kinda f-f-feels like th-they’re all s-s-staring at us, d-d-doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Ben said.

“You kn-know, I kn-know they’re n-n-not,” Rowan said, “b-b-but … I d-d-don’t think I w-w-want to …”

“Me neither,” Ben agreed.

“W-want to go to the Th-Th-Three B-Broomsticks?” Rowan asked.

“So real live people can stare at us?” Ben raised an eyebrow – and winked. “Sounds great.”

He got up, extending a hand to her. Rowan took it and let him help her up. They walked toward the door.

“S-s-so,” Rowan said as they reached it, “y-y-you never d-d-did tell me about y-your p-p-pets …”

“True,” Ben replied. “What do you want to know?”

Rowan just shrugged, entwining her fingers through his. “W-w-whatever you want t-t-to t-tell me.”


	22. Chapter 21: Leche de Tigre

**Chapter 21: Leche de Tigre**

Ben pushed the door to the Three Broomsticks open, holding it with his shoulder and gesturing Rowan through with his free hand. The other was locked in Rowan’s hand – and he was okay with that. A buzz of noise picked up. It wasn’t like it was that difficult to pick either of them out of a crowd, and cross-house dating was not _uncommon_ , but it was certainly not common enough that it didn’t develop some talk whenever it happened. Plus, Ben admitted – if only to himself – when an idiot who thought running the headmaster’s underpants up the flagpole was a good idea got together with one of the smartest girls in their year, it was probably worth a few whispers.

There was a two-person table not in the direct line of fire that had just come open, and Ben led Rowan to it and let her sit down while he pressed through the line of humanity to go to the bar and get them something to drink.

“So, w-what do you th-think of owls?” Rowan asked as Ben dropped a Butterbeer on the table in front of Rowan before sitting down with his own.

“Owls are great. They’re not cats, of course, but mostly I knew I wasn’t going to get much use out of an owl. What would I use it for? Writing C. Madeline?” Ben snorted.

“C-C-C. Madeline?” Rowan’s brow crinkled in that adorable way it did when she was puzzled. “I know I know the n-n-name—but—where?”

“What name?” Candice asked, appearing out of the crowd – which suddenly seemed to be congregating around the table.

“Are we interrupting something?” Jon batted his lashes. “Like a date?” he asked in a stage whisper.

“Yes. Yes, y-you are.” Rowan stuck her tongue out at him.

“A—date?” Blair asked looking back and forth between Rowan and Ben. “With … Ben Moore?”

“I am sittin’ right here, darlin’,” Ben drawled at her.

“Oh—I didn’t mean it disparagingly!” Blair brushed at her fingernail before nervously twining a curl around her finger. “Just, I am surprised.”

“Well, lookin’ around at your faces, I’m guessing this isn’t all just to congratulate Rowan on her date,” Ben said. “Something we should know?”

“Something _she_ should know,” Aqil said sharply. “Whether she thinks you should know is up to her.”

“What’s it about?” Rowan asked, no trace of a stammer in her voice. Everyone looked at Candice, who scuffed a shoe into the floor board.

“Pepé le Pew.”

“Tell me!” Rowan said sharply.

“And him?” Aqil said.

“Ben c-c-caught onto P-P-Pepé being—well—P-Pepé—uh—ish b-b-b-before anyone d-d-did—even me,” Rowan told him. “S-s-so, him.”

“Not here?” Jon rubbed his neck looking around at the other students. “You two are drawing enough attention.”

“Which is not at all exacerbated by the fact that we’re the only table surrounded by a ring of Ravenclaws looking terribly serious.” Ben smirked. “So—where to, Cap’n?”

“Is he always like this?” Blair asked in a whisper to Rowan.

“P-pretty m-m-much. You get used to it.” Rowan held her hand out to Ben. Candice grabbed the Butterbeers off the table.

“Hey, just because we’re ruining your date with something serious doesn’t mean you should have to leave your beers behind.” Candice shrugged. “My dad says walking away from a full pint is bad luck; it’ll haunt you all day. Or at least that’s what he tells my mum. I figure no point tempting fate.”

“Yeah. I’ll agree with that—bad luck for Rowan is likely to get her a broken something and me kicked out of school,” Ben muttered.

“So, what name?” Candice came back with. Probably not to tempt fate or anything. Obviously they couldn’t talk about whatever they wanted to tell Rowan about here.

“C-C. M-M-Madeline,” Rowan provided. “B-B-Ben s-said t-that he’d only use an owl f-for writing C-C-C. M-M-Madeline, whomever she is, which I can’t r-remember.”

“C. Madeline Corbie?” Blair asked, actually turning around and looking at Ben. “Why on earth would you write _her_?”

“You _k-k-know_ her?” Rowan asked, curiously.

“I know _of_ her,” Blair said tossing her curls. “Think your grandmother Gorlois without the reputation for dark witchery. She’s a wizarding society matron.”

“So, yeah, I’m with Rowan, why’d you be writing letters to her?”

“She’s the reason I’m at Hogwarts, mostly.” Ben scratched at his eyebrow with a free hand. “She said my mom would have wanted me to go to Hogwarts—not an American wizarding school. I dunno if that’s true or not—but it’s about the only request my aunt says C. Madeline ever made about me.”

“Why didn’t you just ask your mum?” Candice asked, before getting glared at by Rowan. “What? It’s an honest question!”

“My mother is dead, Candice. Which Rowan knew,” Ben said.

“And why don’t we?” Candice demanded. “I mean everyone knows Quill is an orphan.”

“Because,” Ben said, not wanting to get into the myriad of reasons that his parents were a sensitive subject he didn’t want to talk about.

“Forgive me for being obtuse,” Aubrey said, speaking for the first time. “But I’m still not seeing why Mrs. Corbie would be making requests on your mother’s behalf.”

“She’s my grandmother, my mom’s mother.” Ben shrugged. Blair was staring at Ben. “Nobody chooses their grandparents, Blair.”

“That is true,” Blair agreed after a moment of quiet.

“S-s-so, um,” Rowan interjected. “W-where _are_ w-we going?”

“Far, far away.”

“Shall we visit Shrek and Fiona while we’re there?” Ben asked innocently. There were some blank looks, but Candice crowed and even Aqil cracked a quarter-smile. Rowan grinned at him.

“Must be a Muggle thing,” Aubrey muttered to Blair.

“I think I’m gonna like him,” Candice whispered to Rowan. “Do you know anything about electricity?”

“Only that idiots play with it without advanced knowledge—and that I try not to be that kind of idiot,” Ben told her.

“Pfft.” Candice looked sour for about half a minute.

“Here’s a good spot,” Jon said. They were out in a field by the Shrieking Shack, far enough out that there was nothing but grass around them – which meant sunlight. The day was warm for late October, but the wind had a bite that said winter was lurking. And also coincidentally (or not), there were no trees around, so no one could eavesdrop all that easily.

They dropped to the turf almost in unison, in a rough circle. Rowan leaned closer to Ben’s shoulder and he draped an arm around her, rubbing lightly at her blue sweatshirt-clad sleeve. Aqil scowled for a moment, then glanced away and sort of smiled when Rowan just smiled up at Ben.

“Pepé le Pew, I imagine, is the very French TA from our archaeology class?” Ben asked when no one seemed particularly inclined to get this barrel of monkeys rolling.

“Y-y-yes,” Rowan told him.

“Well, I guess—it was my plan, so I guess I should be the one to explain?” Candice asked as if she were hoping the others would say no. Unfortunately for her, no one did say no.

“Hell friggin’ yes, Candice. I spent three hours as _Trish_! You get to explain.” Aqil snorted.

“As _T-T-Trish_?” Rowan gasped. “T-Trish Abbot? Why?”

“Well, I might’ve—mighta—told everybody about Monsieur le Pew’s, uh, invitation to the café and had a really—quite genius, if I do say so myself—plan to use it to our advantage,” Candice said rubbing her neck and staring at the grass.

Then she laid out the plan, with interjections, some heated, some comical, some unnerving, and how it had all gone down. Rowan looked horrified, and beyond that, if Ben was a judge, scared and completely bewildered.

“S-s-so he _was_ t-t-trying t-to—to le Pew me!” Rowan half-sobbed, when Candice stopped talking.

“And more—probably,” Jon added reluctantly.

“What do we do, now, though?” Blair asked.

“I have an idea.” Ben said when no one else spoke up.

“You—you do?” Candice asked leaning forward.

“Yeah, we take this to Lipskit,” Ben said. The Ravenclaws all stared at him—even Rowan. “Before you call for the little men in their clean white coats, hear me out. Lipskit might not be your head of house—but, well, no insult to Flitwick, he’s a great guy. But he’s a nice guy. He gives people things like benefits of the doubt and whatnot. Besides, he can make inquiries, but Bellerose has been too fucking careful. Besides me an’ Candice, nobody but Rowan’s seen anything. And Candice is Rowan’s friend—and the whole contents of the Three Broomsticks saw me and Rowan holding hands. We’re too close to be objective. Lipskit is our instructor in the class that Bellerose is supposed to be a TA in.

“And I know Lipskit’s got a reputation for being a stickler to the rules, but believe me, the man is more interested in getting shit done.” Ben shook his head. “He’s not quite a ‘rules are only for people not smart enough to break them,’ but if the choice is between git ‘r done and follow the rules, he’s gittin’ every time. If y’all fudge a little on _how_ you got your inside info—dollars to donuts, Lipskit’ll be more interested in your results than on how exactly you got your info. Which is another place where goin’ to Lipskit makes more sense than Flitwick. Flitwick would ask; Lipskit would tell you he didn’t want to know.”

“B-b-b-but …” Rowan broke off.

“What, sweetheart?” Ben asked; Rowan blushed a little.

“Well, I’m j-j-just—t-t-taking t-t-this to _Lipskit_?”

“I know—crazy, right?”

“Bits up, face down crazy,” Candice muttered.

“I think it’s got possibilities,” Jon said. “But you’re the one who’ll have to do the talking, Rowan.”

* * *

Rowan swallowed. Doing the talking … was not something she would look forward to. But what choice did she have? Now that her friends were worried enough to risk getting hexed or hit on or _expelled_ to figure out what was going on …

It was past time to take it to an adult.

Rowan pushed her free hand through her hair, and Ben held her a little more closely for a fraction of a second. “O-okay,” she said, nodding. “B-b-but …”

The thought of tackling Lipskit was terrifying. But maybe … if it wasn’t just Lipskit … Professor Zanetti had said that her door was always open …

“M-m-maybe we c-could t-talk to Professor Z-Z-Zanetti too?” Rowan squeaked.

“Good idea,” Aubrey nodded. “Two of them keeping an eye on Monsieur le Pew can’t hurt.”

That hadn’t been the primary benefit from Rowan’s perspective, but there was no reason to bring that up now.

“D-d-do—d-d-do you think we c-c-could—um—f-f-fool Professor Zanetti as w-well?” Rowan asked, looking up at Ben.

“Now, why are you askin’ me, darlin’?” Ben asked, eyes going wide and a hand going over his heart in perfectly mimed surprise.

“B-b-because you’re b-b-better at this s-s-sort of thing than I am,” Rowan shrugged. “K-knowing what t-t-teachers you c-c-can—g-g-get around.”

Ben chuckled. “Well—you’re not gonna _fool_ Zanetti – or Lipskit – but you can probably get it so she doesn’t ask inconvenient questions. ‘Specially if you go to her and Lipskit at the same time.”

Rowan nodded. “O-okay. That—we’ll do th-that then.”

She frowned. They would have to think of a cover story of some kind – or at least a convincing way to fudge the details. And to do that …

Rowan looked up and around the circle. “How—how d-d-did you g-g-get the P-Polyjuice? Doesn’t,” she glanced at Blair, “d-d-doesn’t that t-take a m-m-month or m-m-more to b-brew?”

Her friends were all quiet. Uncharacteristically so. Quill seemed to find something intensely interesting in the clouds, Aubrey started ripping a blade of grass into tiny pieces, and Candice began to whistle. Badly.

“G-g-guys?” Rowan asked.

“Well …” Jon started. “Technically speaking … _we_ didn’t get the Polyjuice at all.”

“And we were going to tell you this bit,” Candice added, “just—you know—we wanted to get the important stuff out first.”

“O-okay …” Rowan said, looking from one friend to another – and finally to Ben, who looked just as skeptical and curious as she felt.

“We might have had a little help with the Polyjuice,” Candice went on.

“Zach was involved,” Aubrey added.

“Yeah, Zach was involved,” Quill agreed.

Rowan shook her head, wishing she could be more surprised. But Zach – for all that he should have been the voice of reason here – had curious blind spots when it came to reason, and loyalty to his friends was one of the biggest of them.

“And, well,” Candice swallowed, “we were trying to … _maybe_ … break into Professor Yaxley’s office …”

Rowan’s eyes went wide and she sucked in her breath.

“But we were interrupted, by … um … your cousin.”

Rowan blinked. “My what?”

“Vivianne Gorlois?” Candice asked hesitantly. “And—to make a very long and complicated story short—Vivianne agreed not to blow us in to Yaxley so long as we … well … let her in on the plan.”

“So she got the Polyjuice,” Jon added.

“And the Slytherins’ hairs,” Quill put in.

“And the clothes,” Aubrey added.

“Except yours, Rowan—I got those,” Blair said. “And your hair, too. If that … makes you feel any better.”

Rowan stared at her friends. She stared at Ben, to make sure she’d heard all of this properly and wasn’t hallucinating or dreaming. Ben’s eyebrows had risen, and he let out a slow whistle.

“ _Why_?” Rowan gasped. “Why would she—why would _you_ …?”

“Well, as to why would _we_ – she was blackmailing us, honey-bear, so we didn’t have much choice,” Jon pointed out.

“And as for why would _she_ ,” Quill finished, “she was blackmailing us, so we weren’t in a position to ask.”

“But—maybe we should ask Zach,” Blair murmured.

Six sets of eyes swiveled to her.

“I—I just think he’s more likely to know than we are,” Blair said, putting her hands up. “Um—they were—together during our—masquerade. And—well, they were talking pretty—earnestly. So he might have an idea. Maybe?” Blair asked.

“And it couldn’t have been just acting,” Quill added. “Vivianne was a fairly convincing Isolde, but Zach was barely holding his own as Fabius.”

Rowan raised an eyebrow. “Z-Zach had to be F-F-Fabius G-Gamp?”

“Ouch,” Ben hissed. “Is he all right? Recoverin’ from that?”

“Hey, I had to be Trish Abbot for three hours. _And_ I got snogged by Antony Quince. If I survived with my sanity intact, Zach is gonna be fine,” Quill protested.

“Aww,” Candice pouted. “Was I that bad?”

Before Quill could say anything – he looked too surprised to speak – Jon broke in. “Candice, you could have been the best snogger in the world. But you were in _Antony Quince’s_ body. Trust me – and this is coming from someone who _likes_ boys – no amount of snogging skill is going to make up for that.”

“Hear, h-hear,” Rowan murmured. “But—but um—maybe we shouldn’t b-b-bring the P-P-Polyjuice into it at all …”

“Well, that isn’t necessarily what you have to do,” Ben mused. “I mean, sure, try to hedge a bit an’ make it sound like Rowan was at the café without, actually, you know, sayin’ so – but if it comes to it … look—m’cousin’s told me a thing or two about Polyjuice law. If you switch places with someone with their permission, there’s nothin’ illegal about that. So … if you say you got some Polyjuice, you could say that one of you switched places with Rowan.”

“But how would we get Polyjuice?” worried Blair.

“You don’t mention that. An’ Lipskit probably won’t ask,” Ben shrugged.

“If—if all else f-f-fails,” Rowan murmured, “m-m-maybe—we s-s-say you m-made it, Blair? You—you’re s-s-still taking P-P-Potions—and you’re g-g-good at it. We d-d-don’t have to s-s-say why. Or when,” Rowan mused.

“And there’s your mum, too, Rowan,” Jon pointed out, and Rowan nodded.

“S-s-so—ok. We h-have m-m-me – more or l-l-less – m-m-meeting with Pepé. And …”

“And we listened in using the Weasley bugs!” Candice said. “See? This is easy! And that part’s even true!”

“And we most emphatically keep Vivianne out of this,” Aubrey said, “because I do not want to end up on the wrong side of that girl’s wand. And we should probably keep Zach out, too.”

“You’re afraid of Vivianne Gorlois?” Candice asked. “But she doesn’t even duel!”

“She’s got all of Slytherin following her orders,” Aubrey countered. “And she chooses to be best friends with Sybilla Cromwell, who is scary as hell. I repeat: I am not ending up on the wrong side of that girl’s wand.”

“Part of bein’ smart is not bein’ stupid,” Ben agreed.

“O-okay,” Rowan murmured. “Okay.” She went over their plan in her mind, testing it for obvious holes and weak spots. She didn’t find any – except for the obvious, that everything depended on Lipskit not asking obvious questions in favor of getting things done. It was, when she thought about it, a rather large weak spot …

But there wasn’t any other teacher who would give them more of the benefit of the doubt. Except maybe Hagrid – but he would probably only give her the benefit of the doubt because he knew her mother – and he would probably _tell_ her mother – and if anyone was going to tell Elaine anything, Rowan wanted it to be her.

They talked strategy for another couple of minutes before they all decided that they’d figured it out as much as they were going to figure it out. At that point, there was nothing much to do other than walk back to town.

Rowan and Ben brought up the rear – Candice had seemed to want to fall into step with them, but Jon and Quill had grabbed her and practically frog-marched her up to the front.

Ben still had his arm around Rowan’s shoulders, and they walked slowly, letting the rest of the group outpace them. “So,” Ben remarked, “seems like your friends don’t hate me.”

“My f-f-friends aren’t v-very good at h-hating p-p-people—well, p-p-people who d-d-don’t deserve it,” Rowan replied. “S-s-so when d-d-do I get to—um—m-m-meet your f-friends?”

Ben glanced at his wristwatch. “We’ve still got another hour before we have to head back to the castle. Want to go cause a few heart attacks?”

Rowan laughed. “S-s-sure. L-let’s do it.”

And so they did. Because even though Rowan still had questions – even if she was still nervous – even if today had been nothing like what she had been expecting …

She’d had a few good – very good – things happen.

And she would be damned if she didn’t enjoy them as much as she could. 

* * *

“Well, I hope whatever your important thing was—it was actually important,” Juliette said as Zach took one of the two empty seats at the table holding all of his friends. “You’ve missed some terribly important gossip.”

“Zach hates gossip,” Krem pointed out, gesturing to toward him with a bottle of Butterbeer.

“It’s still important to know it,” Juliette told him.

“As I’m sure you won’t stop until I’ve had it lorded over me, so what did I miss?” Zach asked cracking open his own Butterbeer.

“Your little friend Rowan was just in here holding hands with Ben Moore, for one.” Juliette smirked. Zach blinked – admittedly a couple of times – but then again … Ben wasn’t such a bad guy. And he knew that Rowan liked Ben. If he hadn’t noticed that she _liked_ Ben, he had a million excuses for that.

“But then they were swarmed by Rowan’s friends and led outside—so I dunno, they might be beating him up or something,” Shae told him, jokingly.

“Nah, they’re Ravenclaws,” Titan put in. “They might hex him to a slug—but I doubt they’d beat him. They’re not Slytherins, after all.”

“Since when is beating someone cunning?” Claudia asked with a slight glare at Titan.

“As you’re on it, I assume you’ve seen your Quidditch team beaters,” Titan pointed out. “And several others who have an unfair ratio of bicep to brain.”

“I know—I know. But I like to live in a world where that isn’t true.” Claudia shook her head, her long blonde hair swishing over her back as she did it.

“Is it built around the premise that people like Quince and Birch and Abbot and Rowle are smarter—or just don’t exist?” Juliette asked, propping her head up on her hand.

“Very fu—oh, oh Merlin!” Claudia dropped her Butterbeer to table to clasp both hands over her mouth. Krem’s hand shot out and steadied the bottle before it could overturn as they all looked at Claudia in concern.

“What?” Juliette demanded.

Claudia pointed toward the doorway, where Spencer had just made Ben and Rowan into only the second biggest scandalous hook-up of the day. Unless there was some _other_ reason why he’d be holding hands with Sybilla Cromwell. But, Zach guessed, by the smug smile that folded itself onto Sybilla’s lips, there really wasn’t. They moved into the pub with fairly matched strides, even though Spencer was quite a bit taller than Sybilla was.

They made straight for the table that Zach and his friends were sitting at.

“I’ll see you later?” Spencer asked when they reached it.

“Of course.” Sybilla’s cat-in-the-cream smile grew just a shade.

“You could,” he gestured at the table with half a shrug the movement shaking loose that chunk of hair that always seemed to escape from his tail. Sybilla reached up and tucked the lock behind his ear, easy as breathing.

“No, no, I have a secret or two I have to go beat out of Vivianne. We’ll save me getting to know your friends for later. Preferably in some place I can lock the door so they don’t go running screaming ‘Agh! It’s the Slytherin’s Evil Genius, run, run for your lives!’” Sybilla said, looking far too serious for what sounded like a joke.

“They wouldn’t do that,” Spencer said. “But all right.” He bent his head to brush his lips against her cheek, except Sybilla turned her head so he caught her lips instead. She broke the kiss off with a smirk and took two steps back before turning to purposely stride for the door – third- and fourth-years of every house diving out of her path.

Spencer took the empty seat by Zach with a smile before pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and polishing his glasses.

No one said anything as the noise level in the pub slowly returned to normal all around them.

“I’d ask what that was about—but first off, I’d sound like Jules—and second off, I’m not sure I want to know,” Shae said slowly. Juliette looked like she’d just bitten into a lemon.

“Besides,” Claudia said with a sidelong smirk at Juliette, “it’s obvious what that was about—but—um—wow, Sybilla has hormones. Here we were all convinced she’d cleared all that out to make room for more evil and more genius.”

Spencer snorted but smiled.

“So, if Spencer’s going out with Sybilla—then—there’s hope for Trevor?” Titan asked, jokingly. Trevor had obviously borrowed Juliette’s lemon.

“That’s never going to happen,” Trevor muttered.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Trevor.” Krem lightly punched his shoulder.

“Yeah, you’re a Hufflepuff; you’ve got three houses _full_ of people just _waiting_ to sell you short,” Shae added after Trevor shook his head.

“And just what is wrong with being a Hufflepuff?” Juliette asked, finally finding her tongue.

“Nothing,” Krem said. “Unless you’re a stereotypical jerk or an arsehole.” He looked around the table.

“Well, then there’s a lot of those here,” Spencer pointed out.

“There are a lot of those everywhere. Humanity didn’t get to be the dominant species on the planet by being nice, which is probably why there are three houses full of people waiting to shortchange Hufflepuff,” Krem said.

“You guys are taking this surprisingly normally,” Spencer finally interjected.

“Shock?” Shae asked looking at Claudia.

Claudia nodded once. “Shock.” They turned to Spencer and said, “Shock is a good answer.” Spencer laughed.

“Seriously, what are we supposed to do—jump up and go ‘Quick, check Spencer for Unforgivables and love potion’? So—you’re dating Sybilla Cromwell.” Shae shook her head. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Name one,” Titan said.

“Somebody fell in love with a dude with homicidal tendencies and no nose. At least Sybilla is still in possession of all her facial features,” Shae shrugged.

“Thanks, Shae,” Spencer sighed. Shae shrugged and took a long drink of Krem’s Butterbeer.

“You know—you could just let me buy _you_ a Butterbeer.”

“I like sharing with you.” Shae pouted, her eyes going sad.

“But then I have to get up and go to the bar twice as often. Which means I have to disturb you twice as often.” Krem also pouted.

“You need some minions. Minions could go to the bar for you.” Shae snuggled closer to Krem.

“Minions?”

“So before we drown in candy floss—what’d I miss?” Spencer asked Zach.

“Got me; I barely got here before you did. But apparently, before you blew it out of the water, the big gossip of today was Ben Moore and Rowan,” Zach offered.

Spencer cocked his head to the side. “I’m not sure that’s so surprising. I mean—you’ve seen them together in archaeology class.” He pushed his glasses up his nose.

“True. But most people haven’t,” Zach said. “You have anything interesting to offer?”

“We-ell as Sybilla and I were coming out of the book store—Antony made the mistake of saying something to Niketa about Booker again.” Spencer rubbed his neck.

“Again?” Claudia asked.

“Again,” Spencer agreed.

“Oh Merlin.” 

* * *

Vivianne tapped her foot on the ground, crossed her arms over her chest, and glared.

Perhaps she was overdoing it. She’d been playacting all day, and now she didn’t know when to stop. But it was easier to pretend to be irked, to be annoyed, than to show what she actually felt.

_Relief_.

“I don’t know why it’s necessary that we save an idiot from the consequences of his own stupidity,” Vivianne said. She added a glare at Antony as she said this.

Antony didn’t answer, but he did belch up another slug. Vivianne looked away with a grimace that was not playacted at all.

“Vivianne,” James said in a tone that was _just_ shy of annoyed, “you are not helping.”

“It’ll be okay, Antony,” Trish murmured, doing her best to sound like the concerned girlfriend and more-or-less succeeding.

Antony belched up another slug.

“Do we know any other counter-curses for this thing?” Blake muttered to James. He seemed to be trying to hide the worry in his tone, but he was not succeeding.

“If I did, don’t you think I would have tried them by now?” James snarled.

“Guys, let’s not fight and make this worse,” Belle said. “Maybe someone should try to find Niketa? She might tell us how to take this off Antony if we point out that it’ll stop us from losing more points …”

“Merlin, _no,_ Belle!” James snapped. “She’ll probably just hex whoever asks!”

“My goodness,” said a voice to Vivianne’s left, “I might be new at this whole ‘going out’ thing, but I thought couples were supposed to at least attempt to be nice to each other.”

Somehow, Vivianne wasn’t at all surprised when she turned and saw Sybilla. “Hello, Sybilla dear.”

“Hello, Vivianne.” Sybilla nodded to Antony, Blake, and James. “Is there a reason why we’re all clustered around one of the few people stupid enough to try to question Niketa about her life choices?”

“Because we’re trying to take the spell off him,” James answered, “so we don’t have to take him to Madam Pomfrey and admit what happened.”

“Which will lose us more points,” Blake said. “Or put Antony into detention.”

“Or both,” Antony said miserably, before starting to retch.

Vivianne closed her eyes and looked away.

“Hmm,” Sybilla murmured.

“Do you know how to take the spell off?” Belle gasped.

“Now, Belle,” Sybilla asked, glancing at her nails, “why would you think I would know how to do that?”

“Because this seems like an extremely useful hex,” Belle answered, “and that means you probably know it – and if I know you, you’d never learn how to put a hex on someone without learning how to take it off – just in case.”

Sybilla was actually surprised into something like speechlessness at that. For that matter, so were James and Blake, who turned to Belle with raised eyebrows.

“Well …” Sybilla turned her head to one side and stared at Antony, “as it so happens I do know a spell that _might_ help …”

Blake, James, and Antony stared at Sybilla with varying degrees of pleading expressions.

“But, considering what put Antony into this predicament, I’m not so sure I ought to share. After all …”

_Oh, yes, after all,_ Vivianne thought. She had caught only the tail end of Niketa and Antony’s impromptu duel – but she had caught the gossip around the scene, and Spencer Hood being seen holding hands with Sybilla had been a prominent part of that.

Vivianne was glad for all the distractions, because no one had seen her look of shock.

“I won’t get on your case about you and the Cream— _hurgh_!” Antony answered.

“How lovely,” Sybilla answered. “But that’s only condition one.”

“Condition _one_?” Trish whined.

“Yes. Condition two is that I get to borrow Vivianne for a while.”

“Done,” Vivianne said.

“But—” Blake started.

“Blake, do you want us to lose more points or don’t you?” Vivianne asked.

Blake opened his mouth – but seeing the look on Vivianne’s face, he closed it again, very quickly. “Okay.”

Sybilla waved her wand at Antony. “That should do it. Come on, Vivianne, let’s go.”

Vivianne turned to her without a word – only a wave at the rest of the Slytherins.

“But we don’t even know if it worked!” Trish wailed.

“Are you _seriously_ doubting Sybilla?” Belle asked.

“Um—I do feel kinda better …” Antony said.

Vivianne didn’t hear any more, since they were soon out of earshot. And once they were, Vivianne relaxed for the first time since … the first time since …

She shook her head and didn’t follow that train of thought to its end.

“So,” Sybilla said. They were walking back onto the High Street, but Vivianne doubted anyone would be listening.

“So,” Vivianne replied.

“I have secrets to pump out of you.”

“And I you.” Vivianne raised an eyebrow at Sybilla. “Spencer Hood?”

“I asked first,” Sybilla said primly.

“Oh, come _on_. I always tell you about my boys!”

Sybilla turned to Vivianne with a raised eyebrow. “Do you?”

Vivianne fell silent.

“But … I will tell you,” Sybilla said, perhaps taking pity on Vivianne. “Just, you go first.”

“… If you insist,” Vivianne said. All the same, she waited until the two of them turned down a side street, then hiked into one of the fields, before she said anything.

Sybilla started by conjuring two benches, and another wave of her wand probably did all that was necessary to ensure they wouldn’t be listened to.

Vivianne sat down, frowning, wondering where to start. “Well … Sybilla, did you happen to notice that, after my little Amortentia incident, Monsieur Bellerose seemed to not want to have much to do with our group?”

“Well, you did vomit all over him,” Sybilla pointed out.

“Er, yes. But that’s not the point.” Vivianne combed her fingers through her hair, trying to think of the best way to say this. “He directed his attentions to … my cousin.”

Vivianne had the satisfaction of seeing Sybilla blink. “You mean … Rowan O’Blake? That cousin?”

Vivianne nodded. “And—from what her friends said—he was not being _nearly_ as … polite as he was with me … which led them to hatch an absolutely _mad_ plan …”

As quickly as she could, Vivianne explained everything that had happened – from her finding the group of Ravenclaws (and one Hufflepuff) outside Professor Yaxley’s office to the meeting with Monsieur Bellerose at Café Crépuscule. Sybilla didn’t interrupt, but as Vivianne spoke, her silver eyes grew wider and rounder.

“Merlin,” Sybilla finally said when she was done. “So … Monsieur Bellerose is … well, maybe not _quite_ a paedophile …”

Vivianne raised an eyebrow.

“Please, Vivianne, Rowan can’t be more than a few months from being of age. That’s not paedophilia. I think it would be ephebophilia, technically. Not that the technicalities matter much …” Sybilla mused. “It’s creepy either way.”

“And,” Vivianne pointed out, “he knew about … the first Rowanne. Sybilla—she’s not in any of the records. Grandmother’s told me that heaps of times. She said—she said she thinks that Morgan tried to keep her daughter out of the official stories when she was alive, and after she died, Rowanne preferred to keep a low profile, politically. And …”

There was something else – there _had_ to be something else – a _reason_ why someone like the daughter of Morgan le Fay would have been written out of history and why both Morgan and Rowanne would allow it to happen. And Vivianne was relatively certain that her grandmother knew what it was, for all that she hadn’t told Vivianne.

_Maybe there’s something in the_ Historie _,_ Vivianne wondered, thinking of the great volume of family history. Not that it did her much good to think of it. The book was back at Caer Tintagel, and her grandmother would want to know what she wanted to look up.

“… Vivianne?” Sybilla asked.

“Hmm?”

“Didn’t you meet Mr. Bellerose this summer?”

“Yes, of course. In France. At—” Vivianne stopped, eyes going wide.

_At Uncle Victor’s villa …_

The way Sybilla’s eyebrows rose indicated that she knew just what Vivianne was thinking and that she’d put that thought in there for a reason.

“I think,” Vivianne said, “I should probably – find a way to let Grandmother know about this. Er. Discreetly …”

“You might want to do that,” Sybilla replied. “And the sooner the better.”

“Yes. Indeed. I should—”

Vivianne’s eyes narrowed. “Wait _just_ a moment. Sybilla dear—were you attempting to distract me?”

Sybilla’s mouth opened. Then it closed. “Well, yes, to be honest,” she shrugged. “Though I do think writing to your grandmother wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

“ _Sybilla_.” Vivianne clucked her tongue and shook her head. “Honestly, what do you think I’m going to say about Mr. Hood?”

“Well, for one, that he’s a half-blood,” Sybilla ticked off on her fingers, “two, that he’s a Hufflepuff – three, since when I was interested in men, or even women for that matter – four, some people have the gall to say he’s better than I am in Potions, and what’s worse, they have the gall to be right—”

“Wait, what?” Vivianne interrupted.

“He’s better than I am in Potions,” Sybilla shrugged. “Honestly, it’s not that big a deal, or at least I don’t think it is. Potions is a useful subject, but—”

“A Hufflepuff is better than _you_? In _Potions_?” Vivianne asked.

“Vivianne, out of all the things I brought up, _that’s_ the one you’re going to get stuck on?”

Vivianne frowned, considering that. “Well … as for you being interested in men—”

“Or women.”

“Or women,” Vivianne agreed, “most people are interested in one or the other – or both,” she added, quickly, before Sybilla could point that out to her. “And as for him being a Hufflepuff …”

There was something like a flutter in her stomach at the thought, a flutter Vivianne pushed down. She shrugged as nonchalantly as she could. “There are certainly worse things than him being a Hufflepuff. He could be a Gryffindor, for one.”

“Don’t say that in Niketa’s hearing,” Sybilla smirked.

“Oh, please,” Vivianne waved her hand, “all I’d have to do is point out that the odds of _you_ being able to successfully date a Gryffindor without sending him to the hospital wing are on par with the odds of the Chudley Cannons winning the World Cup. I don’t think even Niketa in her most trigger-happy mood could argue with that.”

“… Probably not,” Sybilla agreed.

And then she frowned. “And … him being a half-blood?”

Vivianne bit her lip.

This _was_ the sticking point.

_But … how bad is it really?_ How many Gorlois women had married half-bloods in the past? Her own grandmother had pointed out, on more than one occasion, that the willingness to occasionally trade a perfect bloodline for intelligence, good looks, or indeed sanity had probably done more good than harm for the clan. It wasn’t like he was a Muggle-born – or Merlin forbid, a _Muggle_.

Still, how much did her opinion matter here, especially compared to everyone else’s?

“You know Frida is going to give you no end of shit over this. And Cornelia might be … annoying as well,” Vivianne pointed out. “And I highly doubt Trish being a half-blood herself is going to stop her from stirring the pot.”

“Vivianne, if I ever start making major life choices on the basis of what Frida, Cornelia, and Trish will approve of, please bring me to St. Mungo’s for a workup,” Sybilla answered, rolling her eyes.

Vivianne’s eyes narrowed. “Then … if you’re not worried about them …” She frowned. “Your parents?”

Sybilla didn’t wince. She didn’t look away. But she did toss her head, and she did twitch at her skirt. Just once, but once was enough.

“I … see,” Vivianne said.

“Do you have my back here, Vivianne, or don’t you?” Sybilla asked, a little sharply, even for her.

_And so the nerve has been touched._ But Vivianne smiled. “Now, now, Sybilla – when have I ever _not_ had your back?”

Sybilla smiled. Not smirked or sneered or even grinned. _Smiled_.

Vivianne wondered if Spencer had seen Sybilla smile yet. And she wondered if he had any idea what kind of world of pain he’d be in for if he dared to hurt Sybilla. She would have to corner him at some point and make sure he knew all about that.

But in the meantime … there were other things to get into. “So, are you going to try to get him to cut his hair?” Vivianne asked.

Sybilla raised an eyebrow. “Why? I like his hair.”

“… Ah,” Vivianne answered. “Good to know … er … so, you know you have to spill now,” Vivianne smirked. “What did you two lovebirds get up to?”

Sybilla chuckled, and then, proving there was at least one conventionally feminine bone in her body (a very small one, probably, but present nonetheless), she told Vivianne everything.


	23. Chapter 22: If I Only Had the Nerve

**Chapter 22: If Only I Had the Nerve**

“So lemme get this straight: you are going to talk to Lipskit,” Cameron said from the doorway of the bathroom where Ben had been combing his hair and then messing it up and recombing it for at least fifteen minutes.

“Yep.”

“And it involves your girlfriend,” Ringo said from beyond Cameron.

“Yep.”

“And you won’t tell us what else it involves or why you need to talk to Lipskit,” Kenny chimed in, his head poking around Cameron’s.

“Yep,” Ben said again. What else could he say? This was not something he wanted spread around school, not when there was quite such reaction to his dating Rowan in the first place. He hadn’t thought much of it; after all, by all accounts, Spencer Hood and Sybilla Cromwell were … worse. However, nobody, not even the most shocked and scandalized, wanted to cross wands with Sybilla. It was anybody’s guess whether that was a show of Slytherin solidarity – as most of the idiots who might be stupid enough to say something were in her own house – or the fact that because they were Slytherins, they had an even better idea of what she was capable of. Or who knew, maybe most of the idiots in Slytherin owed her favors and she was cashing some of them in to buy herself some peace.

Ben, however, apparently wasn’t that scary, and the Slytherins were more than happy to let him know exactly how they felt about him and Rowan. It had been less than twenty-four hours since he’d appeared in the Three Broomsticks with Rowan, and there had already been six scuffles between Slytherins and Gryffindors over the whole thing. He shuddered to think what this was doing to Gryffindor’s house points. He already got enough shit over what he did to them when they pulled a prank, even when it didn’t hurt anyone. Like they’d lost a point for every headmaster statue in the school over the whole “Free Hugs” thing, just because Filch had had to walk around removing all the signs.

He didn’t need to get shit just because he was dating a girl! If Rowan’s friends wanted to give him shit, that was one thing; if his friends wanted to give him shit, that also was one thing. They were friends – they were allowed. They put up with him or would for the duration of him dating Rowan. However, just random Slytherins? Ones he couldn’t tell what their names were if he had an Unforgivable put on him? Why the _fuck_ did they care if he was dating Rowan?

“But it doesn’t have anything to do with the Slytherins going nuts, right?” Booker rubbed his neck. “’Cause—uh—someone told me that—uh—they don’t know why the Slytherins are suddenly going mad in white linen over the whole you and Rowan thing.”

“Booker, I know you have your reasons for saying you and that someone aren’t dating—but you can speak freely here, we already know,” Cameron told him.

“Gives me practice. I’m not so sure …” Booker trailed off.

“Would she hex you?” Kenny asked.

“Maybe?”

“That is so not a reassuring answer.” Ringo shook his head. Ben turned back to the mirror.

“If you put any more product on that, it’s going to look like you stuck your head in a bowl of grease,” Cameron reminded him bluntly.

“Or like you’re Trish,” Ringo added.

“Thanks, guys,” Ben scrubbed his hands through his hair and started very carefully combing it.

“So, if you’re not sure if she wouldn’t hex _you,_ why are you even not-dating her?

“I—like her.” Booker ran a freckled hand through his very red hair. “She’s funny and smart and really pretty.”

“With a hair trigger temper and a propensity for shooting first and asking questions later,” Ringo pointed out.

Booker shrugged with a smile “Nobody’s perfect.”

“Hey, do you blokes have any extra shaving potion?” Liam, one of the prefects from their year, asked from the doorway to their tower room.

“Yeah.” Ringo slipped past Cameron and grabbed a bottle from the sink. “Here, what do you need it for?”

“Tristan was going to shave—with an actual razor.” Liam shook his head as he caught the bottle that Ringo tossed at him.

“Van Gogh!” Kenny and Ringo crowed in unison.

“Yeah. I thought I’d spare Polly that. We could probably reattach it, but with Tristan, we’d probably put that fucker on upside down or summat,” Liam told them. “Oh, by the way, if you blokes are heading out of the tower, take a few mates. I’m told the skirmish counter is up to eight now—and there were at least two in the last one that ended up in the infirmary.”

“Our side or theirs?”

“Theirs—but I’d rather not see too many of ours. Thanks for this, Moore.”

“Go to hell, Tierney,” Ben called back, pleasantly. Liam just knocked his fist against the door frame and disappeared up toward the other sixth year boys’ dorm.

“So—even if you won’t tell us what’s going on—you aren’t leaving this tower without us, even to go to Lipskit’s office. You know that, right?”

“So—what, I need a bodyguard now?” Ben asked, finally tossing his comb into the sink and shaking his head.

“Yes. Yes, you do.” Cameron said. “I might as well get some practice in.” He shrugged.

“Should I change?” Ben scrubbed at the back of his neck.

“Yes. Let’s not tempt fate.” Kenny said, heading for Ben’s wardrobe, throwing the doors open.

“Tempt—fate?” Ben asked. “I doubt Lipskit is going to get all that upset over a tee.”

“You’re wearing a _red_ shirt.” Kenny stuck his head out of the wardrobe. “Let’s not tempt fate.” Ben snickered. “Here, blue—solidarity with your girl’s house—and blue shirts didn’t die.”

“Blue shirts are medical staff and rarely left the Enterprise,” Ben pointed out.

“Just put it on.” Kenny tossed the shirt into Ben’s face, but Ben stripped his shirt off and put the blue one on.

Ben didn’t like to be superstitious, he really didn’t, but the air outside the tower did seem – charged – like the air before a lightning storm back home. The kind that had the cows pressing against the fence, all huddled down in hollows.

They almost made it to Lipskit’s office without incident – but then they turned a corner, and there was a knot of Slytherins, obviously waiting for some Gryffindors to come along. “Go, Ben!” Ringo called, “We got this!” Ringo, Booker, and Kenny engaged the waiting Slytherins.

Cameron and Ben dashed around another corner. “What the _fuck_?” Cameron asked. “Seriously, what’s gotten into those pricks?”

“Wholesale idiocy.” Ben shrugged. “Let’s just get to Lipskit’s office. Even the Slytherins won’t be stupid enough to be waiting there.” He hoped. Thankfully the office was just a short walk down the hall from where they were, and thankfully, Rowan – with all of her friends in tow – was waiting for him just outside the door to the Gryffindor Head of House’s office.

“Hey,” Ben had time to say to Rowan before two voices in unison came floating down the hall. “You killed Kenny! You bastards!”

Cameron and Ben looked at each other before snickering.

“We shouldn’t laugh,” Ben told Cameron. “You know that means they took out Kenny.”

“I know—but it’s just …” Cameron spread his hands.

“Did we miss something?” Jon asked.

“Apparently the open warfare hasn’t gotten to Ravenclaw, yet?” Cameron asked.

“O-open—w-w-warfare?” Rowan asked, taking Ben’s hand.

“Apparently Slytherin has some real questions about my life choices,” Ben told her. “Questions they’re asking by turning their wands on any Gryffindor who sticks their nose out of the tower.”

“Is this about Rowan?” Blair asked, worriedly.

“And is your friend okay?” Aubrey asked.

“I’m sure it’s okay, I think they were fourth years and it’s Booker and Ringo—even if they somehow KO’d Kenny,” Ben said, wishing he felt as confident as he hoped he sounded.

“KO’d?” Blair whispered to Quill.

“Knocked out—it’s from games,” Quill said. “I’ll explain later.”

“He in there?” Ben jerked his chin at Lipskit’s office.

“We’re j-just w-w-waiting for C-Candice; she w-w-went to g-get P-P-Professor Z-Z-Zanetti.” Rowan stared at her shoes. “I’m s-s-sorry that K-Kenny g-g-got h-hurt.”  

“Don’t blame yourself—you didn’t do anything,” Cameron said before anyone else could. “Just because the Slytherins are a bunch of—” he glanced at Lipskit’s door. “Redacted, redacted, redacted, morons,” he scoffed.

“That’s one way to put it.” Jon snickered.

“My luck, Lipskit’d stick his head out the door right as the first curse crossed my lips,” Cameron pointed out.

“Is there some reason you’re all gathered outside my office?” Speak of the devil. Although if Ben knew Lipskit, the professor had been listening to every word since they’d arrived.

“Well, it _is_ safer here than anywhere else outside Gryffindor Tower, sir,” Ben pointed out. Lipskit muttered something under his breath that Ben didn’t catch, but he was fairly certain by Lipskit’s expression that it would have made a dockworker blush, if the dockworker in question spoke Yiddish. He did that, Ben noticed, probably because very few of the students understood a word of it.

“But actually we’re here to see you, sir. There’s—something you probably ought to know,” Ben said as Rowan’s grip on his hand went tighter. “But—uh—in the interest of not going over it twice, might we wait for Professor Zanetti?”

“And C-C-Candice,” Rowan said, looking up at Ben, probably trying to tell him that they’d voted Candice to be involved, which was probably smart; Candice was the only one who had seen something in person that didn’t involve a whole fuckton of broken rules.

“We’re here,” Zanetti said; Candice panted slightly. “I had to break up a fight on the way.”

“It wasn’t the one Booker and Ringo were in?” Ben asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yes, actually it was.”

“They’re okay, right?” Cameron asked.

“Fine. Your friend Kenny is on his way to the infirmary, but Booker and Ringo were fine.” Professor Zanetti looked around at the solemn faces before her eyes dropped to Ben and Rowan’s linked hands. “So, what is this about? Candice didn’t say, other than you needed to talk with me—and Professor Lipskit—about something.”

Ben gestured at the door to Lipskit’s office with a rueful shrug.

“We’ll wait for you here,” Jon said to Rowan.

“I’m gonna go check on Kenny. I’ll be back,” Cameron said.

“Take Quill with you. He’s terrible at waiting,” Aubrey suggested. “And it sounds like an extra wand won’t hurt anything.” 

* * *

Rowan had never been in Professor Lipskit’s office before. If this was any other professor’s office – in any other circumstances – she might have had a look around. As it was, she was too busy holding tight to Ben’s hand and trying to quell the tossing sea in her stomach to worry about anything more than sitting in the right chair when Professor Lipskit pointed it out.

Professor Zanetti waved her wand, and a third chair appeared on the visitors’ side of the desk. She waved it again, and the chair by the fireplace scooted over to Lipskit’s side of the desk.

Rowan took the middle seat of the three visitors’ chairs, Ben and Candice flanking her. Rowan took a deep breath, then another one.

Candice elbowed her. Rowan glanced that way, and Candice shot her a manic grin.

That _did_ make her feel better. Not a lot better, but a little better.

“So, what’s going on?” asked Professor Zanetti, looking from Candice to Rowan to Ben.

Professor Lipskit just glanced at Ben and Rowan’s still-joined hands. He didn’t say anything about it, only raising his eyebrows before looking back at the students’ faces.

Rowan had to do the talking, and there was no way she was going to be able to beat around the bush. She swallowed and licked her lips and jumped in. “I’m h-h-having a p-p-problem with—w-w-with Mr. B-B-Bellerose. H-h-he’s—”

Rowan swallowed again. She’d actually written out everything she was going to say, role-played it with Blair, and done her best to memorize it. It only helped so much.

“H-h-he’s—s-s-said s-s-some things—and d-d-done s-s-some things—that—aren’t—ap-p-propriate.”

“Aren’t appropriate how?” asked Professor Zanetti, very gently.

“H-h-he,” Rowan swallowed, _he’s acting like a paedophile_ , while to the point, wasn’t going to be specific enough. “He—he’s t-t-tried to f-f-flirt w-w-with m-m-me—d-d-during archaeology c-c-class—n-n-not while y-y-you’re around, s-s-sir,” she added to Lipskit, “but w-w-w-when—um—y-y-you’re not there. He—h-h-he—it usually s-s-starts w-w-with f-flirting, b-b-but—then he s-s-starts—t-t-touching m-m-m-me—l-l-like—”

“Miss O’Blake,” Professor Lipskit interrupted. His fingers were steepled in front of his face, and his expression was completely inscrutable. “Breathe.”

Rowan blinked, realized she didn’t remember the last time she had taken a breath, and quickly did so. And then another, because she needed it.

After a few seconds, Professor Lipskit raised his eyebrows at her. “Better?”

Rowan nodded.

“Good. Whenever you’re ready.”

“How—exactly—is he touching you, Rowan?” asked Professor Zanetti. Her eyes were narrowed, and unless Rowan was much mistaken, there was something dangerous banked in them.

“N-n-not— _exactly_ inap-p-propriately—b-b-but—um …” Rowan glanced at Candice, breathed, and patted Candice’s hand, then laid a hand on her arm. “L-l-like—l-l-like that. L-l-like he’s—oh, M-M-Merlin! C-C-Candice! I’m s-s-sorry!”

“It’s okay, Rowan, I can be your demonstration dolly.” Candice grinned at her and patted Rowan’s arm in a way that had absolutely nothing in common with the way Mr. Bellerose did it. “If he’d touched you in a way _I’d_ be objecting to, I’m pretty sure Ben would have decked him before this.”

“Pleadin’ the Fifth on that one,” Ben answered. Rowan filed it away in her mind to later ask just what that meant.

Rowan took another deep breath. Professor Zanetti’s expression was growing blacker, and she couldn’t read Professor Lipskit’s. She looked at the oil lamp on his desk and with its red-and-gold Tiffany lampshade instead.

“I—I t-t-told h-him it m-m-made m-m-me uncomfortable—and I asked h-him t-t-to s-s-stop—b-b-but he d-d-didn’t.”

“Rowan,” Professor Zanetti asked gently – almost too gently – “how long has this been going on?”

“Ab-b-bout a m-month,” Rowan answered. She gulped. “B-B-Ben’s—B-Ben has s-s-seen p-p-pretty m-m-much all of it. He—h-he w-w-won’t l-l-leave m-m-me alone w-w-with Mr. B-B-Bellerose.”

“Is that so, Mr. Moore?” asked Professor Lipskit.

“Yes, sir,” Ben said. “I’ve seen just about everything Rowan is saying. I was even there when she asked him to stop. He tried to make up some b—excuses, and he started up again about thirty seconds later.”

“Oh my—” Professor Zanetti started, then visibly bit her tongue and started to rub both of her temples, taking deep breaths.

“It—um—it g-g-gets w-w-worse,” Rowan admitted.

Professor Zanetti looked up. “Worse _how_?”

Even Professor Lipskit raised his eyebrows.

“L-l-last T-T-Tuesday—r-r-right after the Hogsmeade w-w-weekend w-w-was announced—Mr. B-B-Bellerose c-c-caught m-m-me in the Owlery—and h-h-he—um—h-h-he tried t-t-to g-g-get m-me to agree t-t-to m-m-meet h-him at a c-c-café in Hogsmeade. C-C-Café C-Crépuscule. C-C-Candice w-w-walked in at the t-t-tail end of it—”

“It was _super_ sketchy!” Candice interjected. Rowan let out a sigh of relief. “He was—he was basically trying to ask her out, Professors. He didn’t actually say the word date, because I guess he’s not a complete idiot, but that’s what he was doing!”

“I see,” Professor Lipskit replied.

“And,” Candice shot a slightly nervous glance at Rowan, but the odds of Rowan being able to lie her way through this next part were remote – and both of them knew it. “Well, we thought—we should try to catch him off-guard—and figure out what he wanted with Rowan. Because—because we wanted something definite before we went to you guys. So we—you know those coins they sell at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes? The ones that let you listen in on someone else’s conversation?”

“As it so happens,” Professor Lipskit replied, leaning back slightly, “I have heard of them—and if I recall correctly, since they’re made by Weasley and Weasley, they are categorically forbidden on school grounds. Mr. Filch is very insistent on that, I believe.”

Candice’s jaw fell—then she sat up quickly. “But this wasn’t school grounds! This was Hogsmeade!”

“Ah. Well, carry on, then.” Professor Lipskit nodded.

“Right. Anyway. Um. So—we eavesdropped on Pepé—um—Mr. Bellerose, trying to figure out what he wanted with Rowan. And I heard the whole conversation—and it was not pretty, Professors! It was definitely all date stuff. What are your hobbies, what are your interests, that kind of thing. He even tried to butter Rowan up by talking about the Gorloises!”

Professor Zanetti’s eyes had narrowed, and she was glancing askance at Candice. “You heard all of this.”

“Yes, Professor,” Candice nodded.

“… I see,” Professor Zanetti replied.

“More than just you?” Professor Lipskit asked.

“There—there were a bunch of us listening in on the coins,” Candice answered. She squirmed a little in the seat. “We’ll all say the same thing, Professor.”

For a moment there was silence – long, terrible silence that stretched and stretched until Rowan thought she might have to scream, if only to hear something other than the panic in her head.

Ben squeezed her hand right before it came to that.

And then Professor Lipskit spoke. “Well. That’s hardly appropriate.” He turned to Rowan. “When do you come of age?”

“The e-e-end of August, s-s-sir.”

“And we get more inappropriate with every passing moment.” Professor Lipskit glanced at Professor Zanetti. “Camilla? What are your thoughts?”

Professor Zanetti was taking deep breaths. “First—I’m glad you brought this to us. While I wish you had brought it to us sooner … well, you waited until you had more facts, and I suppose I can’t fault you for that. I promise you, Rowan—Ben—Candice, we will be investigating this thoroughly.”

Rowan let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“In the meantime, I think I can speak for both of us when I say we will do everything in our power to make sure that Mr. Bellerose is not the only adult left in a room with you, Rowan. And Ben? I doubt I have to ask this, but …” She glanced at Ben and Rowan’s joined hands. “Do your best to keep doing what you’re doing.”

“No problem, Professor,” Ben said with something like a grin.

“Right. And next … Rowan,” Professor Zanetti turned back to her, “would it be all right if we brought this up to Professor Flitwick as well? He’s your head of house; he should know what’s going on.”

“And unless you have a damned good reason for us not to tell him, he will know what’s going on,” Professor Lipskit added.

“Um …” Rowan glanced at Candice, whose eyes were very wide and who had gone a little paler.

“We won’t mention anything you haven’t mentioned,” Professor Zanetti said. If Rowan looked carefully, she could almost see a rueful sort of smile poking out.

Candice seemed to relax. So Rowan swallowed and turned to Professor Zanetti. “O-okay.”

“Good. He’ll probably want to talk to you himself—possibly all three of you,” Professor Zanetti said. “And, Rowan … if you haven’t already … you should probably consider bringing this up to your parents.”

“Oh … um,” Rowan replied intelligently. “That—that’s a g-g-good idea.”

“You can use my fireplace to Floo them, if you like,” Professor Zanetti said. “I know your mother lives in Hogsmeade – we can even bring her here if that would help. And she would be welcome to bring your father.”

“N-n-no, that’s f-f-fine,” Rowan said. She swallowed. “Um—I c-c-can j-j-just write t-t-to them.” There was no way she would bring her dad to Hogwarts – not unless it was a matter of life and death – and as for her mum … she didn’t want to have that conversation in Professor Zanetti’s office, nice as she was, even if Professor Zanetti stood out in the hall while she did it. And her mother would probably panic if she got called up to the school because of Rowan again.

It would be easier, better at this point, to write. If she wrote, she could decide exactly how she wanted to put things so that neither of them would worry too much.

Professor Zanetti was frowning slightly, but she nodded. “All right, Rowan, however you feel most comfortable. Is there anything else you three want to bring up?” She glanced at all of them in turn. “Anything else you think might help?”

Rowan shook her head, and so did Ben and Candice – Candice much more vigorously than the other two combined.

“Then … I think we can let you go,” Professor Zanetti said.

“And if Mr. Bellerose tries anything else,” Professor Lipskit added, “do come to us first.”

“W-w-we w-w-will,” Rowan said, carefully not giving Candice a look. “Th-thank y-y-you.”

Professor Zanetti smiled. “No need to do that.”

With that there wasn’t much else to say, so the three of them took their leave of the professors. They left, closing Professor Lipskit’s door behind them.

“How did it go?”

Rowan blinked. She didn’t know who had asked it first. All she could tell, right now, was that her friends were all there – well, except for Zach and his friends, of course. Cameron wasn’t, and luckily Quill didn’t look like he’d been hexed recently.

But they all looked concerned, so Rowan tried to smile. Ben let go of her hand, only to put an arm around her. “It—it w-w-went okay. They b-b-believed us. And they s-s-say they’re g-g-going to l-look into it—and k-k-keep Monsieur le Pew away f-f-from me.”

Some of the tension seemed to leave Quill’s shoulders, and Jon and Blair looked relieved, too. Aubrey’s eyes, however, were narrowed. “Did you have to …” He mimed taking a drink.

Rowan simply shook her head. And now it was Aubrey’s turn to look relieved as well.

“Zach’s probably going to want to know,” Jon murmured. “And … well.”

“Well indeed,” Aubrey muttered.

“But do you need us, honey-bear?” Jon asked. “We could go find an empty classroom or something …”

Aubrey raised an eyebrow at Jon. “Jon, I can’t believe I have to be the one to tell you this, but if Rowan wants to go to an empty classroom with anyone, it’s probably not with us.”

“Oh, _M-M-Merlin_ ,” Rowan murmured, blushing bright red. She swallowed. “U-um – B-B-Ben – you p-p-probably want to check on K-Kenny, r-r-right?”

“Are you sayin’ you don’t want to head to an empty classroom with me, Rowan? After only one day? I’m hurt,” Ben said, putting his free hand over his heart.

For a moment Rowan’s stomach dropped – then she saw the grin, and the wink, and she could breathe again. “We—c-c-could—um—l-l-later.”

“And on that note,” Blair said, “Aubrey, I think we have studying to do. And you too, Candice.”

“What, me? What did I do?” Candice asked. “I wasn’t even teasing Rowan!”

“No, but this is your OWLs year—and you need to start taking it more seriously, Candice!” Blair said. “They’re going to be here before you know it!”

“Then I wish they’d bloody hurry up and get here, so we could get them over with,” Candice muttered.

Aubrey put his hand on her shoulder and shook his head. “You and the rest of your year, Candice. You and the rest of your year.”

Aubrey and Blair took that as their opportunity to decamp to the library, Candice with them and still grumbling. Jon watched them go. “Well … if you’re all right, Rowan—I’ll go find Zach. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, now.”

“Yeah, and don’t do anything he _would_ do, either,” Quill said. “Want company, Jonny boy?”

“Now, when do I ever say no to company?”

Quill and Jon headed off in the opposite direction of Blair, Aubrey, and Candice, leaving Rowan and Ben in the hallway alone.

Ben frowned a little at her. “You sure you want to come? I mean, I’m not objecting to the company—but the two of us together are just going to be Slytherin bait.”

Rowan shrugged. “M-m-maybe—b-b-but we’re g-g-going to have to f-f-face them s-s-sooner or l-later. And … there are s-s-some things that are s-scarier than S-S-Slytherins.”

“Well, don’t let them hear you say that, you’ll just get hexed.” They started walking, Ben’s arm still around Rowan’s shoulders. “You did great in there, by the way.”

Rowan smiled. “Th-thanks. And—thank y-you for c-c-coming w-with m-me.” She leaned a little closer to him, even if the rational part of her mind knew she was asking to trip on something. “It—it w-w-would have b-b-been a l-lot s-s-scarier w-w-without y-you.”

“Don’t mention it, honey,” Ben said.

And just this once – Rowan decided that she wouldn’t. 

* * *

“Merlin,” Flitwick said, his hand over his mouth. “I wouldn’t have believed it. But Candice and Rowan are both terrible liars.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Leo leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him, elbows caught on the arm rests. Zanetti sat primly on one of the visitor’s chairs.

“Did they say how they—came to listen in on this conversation?” Flitwick asked curiously a moment later.

“Nope. And I didn’t ask—and I think for all of our comforts it might be better if you don’t ask either,” Leo told him. The Charms professor raised an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure they bent if not broke a dozen school rules. If you ask, there’s about two ways that can go. Either they’ll lie to you—which I don’t have to tell you is a terrible idea.” Leo cocked his own brow, and Flitwick nodded. “Or they’ll just stop coming to us about things like this.”

“If Harry had come to us …” Flitwick sighed. Leo understood the sentiment. His first year teaching at Hogwarts had been that terrible and peculiar school year right after the battle. There were so many if onlys that had come out of that that the scroll would stretch from one end of Hogwarts to the other and probably back again. “What do _you_ think they did?”

“I honestly haven’t the foggiest. Candice, Jon, Aqil, Blair, Aubrey, Rowan.”

“Some of the smartest and certainly most unconventional kids in a smart house—there’s really no telling,” Zanetti agreed. “I think they did tell us the truth, as far as it went though, Leo.”

“As far as it went—I’ll agree.” Leo nodded. “The tricky part is what they didn’t tell us.”

“Did you—” Zanetti broke off, her lips pursed.

“Did I?” Leo asked. Zanetti was sharp, and obviously there was something more there.

“I got the impression that Candice was there—at least somewhere in the vicinity, listening in just as she was saying—but I get the impression that Rowan … maybe wasn’t. You noticed that Candice talked about that part. Rowan didn’t say a word.” Zanetti tapped a finger against her lips, which were pursed in a silent whistle.

“Polyjuice, maybe?” Flitwick offered. “Several of them are good enough to brew it.”

“But it takes time. Even if someone had cooked up a batch from the minute that Bellerose started flirting with Rowan,” Leo paused for Flitwick to mutter Merlin again – and the worst of the black look to pass off Zanetti’s face, “it’d have barely been done in time—and why would they? They couldn’t have known at the time that Bellerose would have done anything that would require someone impersonating Rowan.”

“True—but there are other ways to get the potion, even if they didn’t brew it.” Flitwick mused. “Rowan’s got her own owl—and her mother is just down in the village—and she usually meets up with her mother during Hogsmeade weekend.”

“Or Yaxley keeps some in the supply closet,” Leo pointed out. His fellow instructors grimaced.

“But that begs the question—how would they get it? The supply cupboard is _only_ accessible through Rosie’s office.” Flitwick sighed. “I can’t …” He broke off.

“You were going to say you couldn’t see them breaking into Yaxley’s office and into the supply cupboard—but you can, can’t you?” Leo asked.

Flitwick nodded. “You see those kinds of friendships, especially when you’ve been a teacher as long as I have. The kind hell and high water can’t break. Those kids would have risked getting kicked out of school to keep Rowan safe,” he admitted. “But—what do we do?”

“Damned good question,” Zanetti sighed.

“I say we leave it alone.” Both Zanetti and Flitwick stared at Leo. “C’mon, if Bellerose really has been creeping on Rowan for a month—and I’d buy it, I’ve come back from my wild goose chase too many times to find Rowan looking vaguely miserable and Moore looking like he was two seconds from spitting nails to not buy that—then we dropped the Quaffle. If it came down to them filching Polyjuice out of the potions supply cupboard as their only means to keep their friend safe, then the fault is as much ours as theirs.”

“They could have come to us, Leo,” Zanetti disagreed. “At any point short of that.”

“Could they?” Leo scratched at his beard. “You’re the one with all the depressing statistics about rape and molestation. How many people tell?”

“Ouch,” Zanetti sighed.

“I’d bet my entire paycheque that it took both her friends going to extreme lengths and every bit of nerve she had—and could borrow—to get Rowan through that door.” He jerked his chin across the desk. “You saw the way she practically clung to Moore’s hand the entire time. The way she had to keep reminding herself to breathe. And that was _with_ what they had from meeting up with Bellerose.”

“… You have a point. Quit stabbing me with it,” Zanetti said.

“I think Leo, as usual, is right, Camilla. We can speculate, but short of using the kinds of extremes that that Umbridge woman did,” Flitwick practically spat the words, “we can’t know. And if we failed the kids by pushing them to that extreme, we failed them enough to let it go. Other than satisfying our own curiosity, pursuing it doesn’t get us anything.”

“All right. I can _maybe_ fight off one of you—I’m not attempting to fight you both,” Zanetti said. “We’ll leave it alone.”

“That leads to the next question: do we tell Maxwell? Do we tell Langley?” Flitwick asked.

“Langley would want proof of the sort that we’d need those details we just agreed to let pass to believe it,” Zanetti said sourly. “And Maxwell—I don’t know.”

“I think he’d be inclined to think the whole thing was dodgy.” Leo shook his head. “Moore is—not in good graces—and Candice isn’t in a whole lot better ones. He might believe Rowan …” Leo spread his hands.

“But I don’t want to risk my kids on it,” Flitwick said. “As Deputy Headmaster, I can deal with this investigation on my own authority.”

Someone tapped on the door to the office.

“Yes?”

“Leo.” Pomfrey stuck her head in the door. “Am I interrupting anything?”

“Not at all, Poppy, we were just finishing up,” Flitwick said.

“I just wanted to make a quick request. I’ve heard from Firenze that we’re likely to get some truly awful weather this coming week. Might I convince you to keep your archaeology class in the castle for the week? If Irma and Argus are to be believed, you’ve got enough rocks, plants, and other assorted detritus stashed here for a fortnight or a moon even.”

 Leo looked at Zanetti, who looked at him before they both looked at Flitwick. Leo quirked an eyebrow and Flitwick nodded once.

“We’ll have to talk to Brigid, but I think that could be arranged,” Leo offered with a rueful shrug. _If we say we’re staying in the castle because of the weather, Langley can’t do anything—we won’t even need the Ministry half of the group to come up,_ Leo thought to himself. _That’ll give us some time to see what we can do about keeping Bellerose far away from Rowan. Perhaps I can even use some of this time to figure out what that thing in the Forest is. It’s far too great a coincidence that it shows up just in time to pull me away—and then Bellerose swoops in._

_Even if that falls through, I can do a little digging into M. Bellerose. There are some curious blank spots in what we know about him. It wouldn’t be the first time one of the families has gotten into a pissing match and used Hogwarts as the grounds for it. And Brigid’s mentioned that Bellerose and Vivianne knew each other._

_Victor Yaxley has contacts at the Ministry, even after a decade gone. Hmmm. I wonder if there’s any way I could discreetly get some information on Yaxley … Maybe Hagrid—he and Elaine are known to shoot the bull over a firewhisky or two in the Hog’s Head. Wouldn’t hurt to ask him._

All of this ran through Leo’s head in a few moments.

“When you leave here, are either of you headed toward the lounge?” Leo asked

“My office,” Flitwick shook his head.

But Pomfrey nodded. “I was going to ask Neville and Bart to sweep the halls again. I can’t be away from the infirmary long, but there’s every likelihood that there’s another fight somewhere.”

“If it’ll help, I’ll give my kids a talk after I’m finished up here,” Leo offered.

“If it were your kids, I would say it might. But as far as I’ve been able to tell, your kids are mostly on the defensive. It’s Rosie’s kids who’re acting like it’s the end times.” Pomfrey frowned. “But there’s no point in sending _Rosie_ out to sweep for kids.”

“Not much,” Zanetti agreed.

“Well, if Brigid is in the lounge, could you send her this way real quick?” Leo asked, folding his hands.

“Certainly—if you’ll sit up. Do you have any idea what that slouch does to your spine?” Pomfrey said, waving over her shoulder by way of goodbye, already turning down the hall.

“Do you want me to send an owl by the Ministry—tell them about Poppy’s request?” Flitwick straightened his robes as he stood up, obviously also preparing to go.

“I can’t see Brigid disagreeing—not with Poppy,” Zanetti said.

“I think that’ll work—better from you than from me,” Leo admitted. “Thanks.” The tiny Deputy Headmaster walked out of the office, closing the door firmly, but unobtrusively, behind him.

“So that was your thinking face while Poppy was talking—care to share what was going on in your head as you were nodding and pretending to listen?”

“A few ideas of what to do with this breathing space is all. I think it would benefit us all if we knew a bit more about our Monsieur Bellerose—and I’d like to see if there’s a connection between Victor Yaxley and Bellerose.”

“Rosie’s father? Why?”

“A—hunch. Brigid said Bellerose and Vivianne knew each other.” Leo interlaced his hands and put them behind his head.

“So?” Zanetti asked.

“Igraine Gorlois wouldn’t use Hogwarts as a chessboard, but I have no such faith in her brother. And it is curious—isn’t it?”

“What exactly is ‘it,’ my cryptic friend?” Zanetti quirked an eyebrow.

“What happened just about a month ago—as regards our specific shared class?”

“Uh, the secret passage—those phallic tubers—we cleared out the passage near that door with the waiting area off it—” Zanetti ticked off on her fingers. “Vivianne. The Amortentia.”

“I know that for the first three or so weeks, Bellerose paid no special attention to my group of kids. Then Vivianne gets dosed, I start getting lured away from the class by some blasted thing, and suddenly Bellerose finds his soulmate in Rowan?” Leo quirked a brow at her.

“That would qualify as curious—or suspicious as bloody hell.” Zanetti nodded in agreement. “Before Brigid gets here, I want to run an idea past you.”

“Oh?”

“Whatever Bellerose’s motives are—and if they even are his own motives—I think we both agree the goal is to keep him away from Rowan before Ben takes his block off,” Zanetti mused. “And the best way to do that—as far as I can see—is to keep him occupied in the other groups, rather than letting him wander freely between the groups as we have been. Perhaps I could nail his foot to the ground where I can keep an eye on him. He seems … well, a little less wary of Brigid and me.

“What if, while you’re poking around finding out about him, we find something that he’s a supposed expert on, and keep him occupied with _that_ for the duration? I can ask for Brigid’s help—probably without having to disclose _why_ to her.”

Leo nodded. “What are you thinking? As regards Brigid.”

“She’s a sweetheart, Leo. If she has a suspicious bone in her body, it’s a very tiny, well-hidden one.” Zanetti sighed. “And that works against us here. If Bellerose _is_ a predator, we don’t want to give him the benefit of the doubt, we don’t want to give him a chance to defend himself, we don’t want to do anything to tip his hand. Brigid would want to give him a chance that – if he is what I’m pretty sure he is – in some way or another, will just allow him to cover his tracks and slip past us. Whether the motives are his or Victor Yaxley’s or someone we don’t even know yet, he’s still ahead of us. We don’t dare let him get any further ahead.”

“Excellent points.” Leo sighed. “So, I guess you do the talking?”

“Not so much that she gets suspicious. I don’t want to hurt her, Leo, I just …”

“Want to exclude her, I get it.” Leo smirked and slid back up in his chair, cracking his neck as Zanetti looked sour.

“You are a thoroughly disagreeable old man,” Zanetti commented.

“Yep.”

“Knock-knock,” Brigid said from outside the door.

“Come in,” Leo told her.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d have any spare time today, Leo.” Kilduff opened the door with a sad smile.

“I haven’t gotten to the dealing with that part of it, yet,” Leo informed her. “That’s next on the agenda—but a couple of things as regards the archaeology class came up.”

“And from the looks on your faces—it isn’t good.” The spindly teacher shut the door behind her and sat herself in the open visitor’s chair.

“Well,” Zanetti sighed, “the first thing is something none of us can do anything about—weather in Scotland in November. Did Poppy let you know about the coming storm?”

“No, when she arrived Neville and—” she sighed in a way that let Leo know that the next word was going to be in reference to Yaxley, “Rosie—they were _arguing_ about what’s happening out there.” Kilduff gestured toward the hallway. “Neville told her she needed to take responsibility for her house, that after all she was their head, and she said that there was no point. That it would work itself out.” The Ancient Runes professor pulled a handkerchief in a pleasant teal and creamy yellow combination from her robes – black, accented with the same colors at the hem and sleeves – and proceeded to fold it in half.

“And you don’t want to be critical, except in this case, you do—rather desperately,” Zanetti said, not with the smirk that Leo would get, but an understanding nod and smile.

“I just don’t understand.” Kilduff sighed. “There are kids getting _hurt_ out there. And—and Poppy is sending teachers out to look for students who might have been hurt and just left in the hallways. I’m not Slytherin’s head of house, I’m not even a former Slytherin, but I _am_ concerned. Not just for Leo’s kids, but for Rosie’s! Somebody ought to be concerned about them. Your—your kids, Leo, they look after their own, always. The only way a Gryffindor would be left in the hall was if they were on their own or their mates were in no shape to help them. That’s not always the case with Rosie’s.”

“Oh, Brigid,” Zanetti reached over and rubbed Kilduff’s shoulder.

“But, Leo did say that he was going to go take responsibility for _his kids_ post this talk—so I probably shouldn’t keep him.” Kilduff squared up her shoulders.

“Poppy is concerned about the weather—there’s supposed to be a right miserable forecast this week. She asked us if we could maybe not drag the kids all the way out to the ruins.” Zanetti said. “And—well given what’s kept Leo here instead of with his kids—I’m almost glad for it.”

“Oh, oh, dear.” Kilduff’s eyes volleyed from Leo to Zanetti back to Leo. “Is—is there something I should know?”

“A personality clash, mostly. Um, I’m afraid we can’t say much more than that, we did sort of promise we wouldn’t go spreading it about—but well—one of the students—and well, there’s no way to get around this—Julien.”

“It’s Ben, isn’t it?” Kilduff sighed. “I’ve known men like Julien—and ones like Ben, there’s just not much common ground between the two. And that’s before you take the oh-so-proud to be French versus the oh-so-proud to be American wedge into account.” _Bless Brigid, just bless her. She’s found a plausible explanation and we didn’t have to say much of anything at all._ “And I know Ben seems a bit on edge after Julien’s been in that group. Don’t worry, though, I won’t say anything. Maxwell—well, there are people who’d wield that much more harshly against Ben than against Julien.”

“I had thought—didn’t Julien have some odd little specialty—translating obscure somethings or something? Something that could turn this from a blunt weapon used against a kid to something that would give Julien focus and defuse our situation for us?” Zanetti asked.

“Oh, yes! I can’t quite place what it was—but I have those papers from the Ministry in my office. Why don’t we go look at Julien’s, Camilla? I got my first box of peppermint brownies from Fluffernutter’s this morning.” Kilduff grinned. “You look like you could use the treat.”

“Oh, you know just what to say, Brigid.” Zanetti grinned at Kilduff.

“I know.” Kilduff grinned back. “I’d offer you some, but I know you’re not much of a peppermint fan, Leo.”

“Plus, I need to go kick some kids into shape,” Leo demurred. “Work before treats. It’s the way of the world.” He smiled ruefully before shooing the other professors out of his office. 

* * *

Monday dawned with driving rain, whipping wind, and plunging temperatures. It was the sort of day when the students who hadn’t mastered putting Warming Charms on their clothes without setting said clothes on fire walked around the castle with cloaks and gloves. And the idea of going outside for anything other than a mad dash to the greenhouses or a sopping wet walk to the paddocks was ludicrous.

It made Vivianne want to spit.

She’d been biting her tongue since the rumor mill started churning on Saturday. The dungeon had been thick with whispers since word spread of Sybilla and Spencer – _and_ Ben and Rowan. Sybilla had put the rumors regarding her and Spencer to rest quickly with her typical mix of blunt truths and unspoken threats. Which left the frustrated dungeon denizens to try to vent their frustration against Niketa and Sybilla on what victims they could find – Gryffindors.

The problem was that the idiots doing the venting were not doing it very intelligently, and Slytherin was hemorrhaging points. Gryffindor was in almost as bad shape, but that “almost” was the kicker.

And Vivianne couldn’t say anything. Cornelia – with Frida and Trish by her side – had been smoldering ever since Sybilla had confirmed the rumors, muttering darkly about “blood traitors” and “house traitors” whenever she knew Vivianne and Sybilla could hear her but could pretend that she didn’t know that. It had only gotten worse when Sybilla had come back from lunch on Sunday and sat with Claudia Churchill, holding a civil, friendly conversation that lasted a quarter of an hour. Cornelia had looked black after that.

So Vivianne was silent. She couldn’t knock the idiot fourth-years and the trigger-happy fifth-years upside the head and tell them in no uncertain terms what fools they were being. If she did so, it would mean open warfare with Cornelia, and she didn’t have time for that.

It was left to James, Claudia, and the rest of the prefects to try to maintain some kind of order. Claudia was sincere about it, and James had enough of a sense of house-preservation and had heard enough scolding from Belle to be sincere about it as well. But Tisiphone and Roderick, the seventh-year prefects, were treating the whole thing as a joke that would blow over in a few days or weeks, and the fifth-year prefects, Silvius and Annis, seemed to be on the side of the idiots.

Vivianne could have used a nice little walk into the Forbidden Forest to take her mind off things. She would have liked to visit the ruins, now familiar as well as comfortable. It was amazing how small the castle could seem when you were constantly dodging hex wars in the halls. She, Sybilla, Cornelia, and Troy had run into a group of Gryffindor fourth-years after Transfiguration, and one of them had had the gall to _pull a wand_ on the group of them.

And all of this wasn’t even getting into the way Blake wouldn’t stop pestering her …

She was heaving another sigh as she and Sybilla walked into the classroom they were going to be using for archeology today – and probably for the rest of the week if the weather didn’t improve. Vivianne did not pray as a rule, but she was already petitioning any higher power who would listen for better weather.

She slammed her books down on a desk near the ones Spencer and Zach had claimed. “Something the matter, Vivianne?” Spencer asked lightly.

Vivianne glared at him. Her mouth opened with a very sharp reply—

But Zach was standing next to him, and he actually looked … _concerned_ , damn him. Vivianne took a deep breath and bit back the sharp remark.

“She’s still upset about some idiot Gryffindors pulling a wand on us on the way back from Transfiguration,” Sybilla said by way of explanation. “Hello Spencer, Zach.”

“Hello, Sybilla,” Spencer replied.

And that was it. If one didn’t know – and if one didn’t know the two of them well enough to see the way Sybilla smiled and the way Spencer didn’t look away from her – one would have never guessed that anything between the two of them had changed.

Then Sybilla took the desk next to Spencer’s and Vivianne was ready to throw up her hands and curse at the world.

But she couldn’t, because she was facing the door – and she saw something. Ben and Rowan, the ones to blame for all the bloody trouble.

They weren’t touching, probably because Lipskit was in the classroom and he tended to frown upon things like that. But Ben held the door for Rowan, and she was laughing at something he was saying, a clear high laugh that seemed to fill the room.

“Aww, it’s the lovebirds,” Lucinda said with a happy sigh. Rowan blushed aubergine. “Oh, don’t be embarrassed! You two are so cute together!”

“… _Cute_ together?” Beau asked, glancing at his girlfriend with a wrinkled nose. “He has to be twice her size.”

“For Merlin’s sake, Beau—maybe it’s their _personalities_ I’m talking about,” Lucinda said, rolling her eyes.

“Ahem,” Lipskit cleared his throat. Vivianne took that as her cue to slip into her desk.

Zach sat next to her. And – Vivianne was not imagining it – he was definitely shooting her a concerned glance.

Vivianne tried to smile at him. He didn’t look convinced.

“All right, everybody!” said Professor Kilduff, and Vivianne looked up. “Now that we’re all here … well, I want to let you all know what’s up. Professor Firenze has predicted that we’re going to be stuck inside for the week, unfortunately. The good news is that we still have plenty for you all to work on while we’re inside. And …” Professor Kilduff glanced at her fellow professors. “Since we don’t have to worry about walking to and from the Forbidden Forest – we thought that if you all work well and stay on task, we would let you all go an hour early this week.”

There were very few classes that would not take that news with grins or perhaps a cheer or two. Vivianne wanted to rest her head in her arms and groan. At least when she was in class, she didn’t have to put up with complete morons making her day worse.

But there was no helping it now, so Vivianne kept her mouth shut while Professor Kilduff explained the assignments they had for the different groups.

Her group hadn’t collected very many artifacts, and the ones they had found either couldn’t be removed from the ruins or were in very good shape and didn’t need much in the way of cleaning. So they would be working on translating the runes that the four of them had found in the atrium and the small chamber off the side of it.

And there were many runes to translate. Vivianne, Sybilla, and Spencer glanced over the different rubbings and lists. It didn’t take long to divide them roughly in half, Sybilla and Spencer getting the more challenging half, the complicated inscriptions, while Vivianne and Zach got the easier half with the runes in isolation or in short phrases.

“Seems like I won’t be much help here,” Zach said ruefully, looking at the squiggles.

They’d brought their desks together to more easily share the rubbings and Vivianne’s books. Sybilla and Spencer’s desks were together as well, and the pair of them were shoulder-to-shoulder, looking at Sybilla’s rune dictionary. Spencer’s dictionary sat unused on the far corner of his desk.

Vivianne sighed.

“… Are you all right, Vivianne?” Zach asked.

“What?” Vivianne looked up. “I—I’m fine.”

Zach was watching her with more than concern – with wariness. She wished she didn’t bloody hate the wariness more than the concern. She wished she didn’t care about either. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked in a low voice. “It—might help.”

Yes, he’d think that, wouldn’t he? He came from Hufflepuff. Hufflepuffs were— _decent human beings_. They weren’t slithering snakes, ready to strike at the first sign of weakness or the slightest mistake. In Hufflepuff, you probably could talk about your problems with a friend with half the house in earshot, and the worst that would happen would be that you’d have so many people offering you handkerchiefs and Chocolate Frogs that you wouldn’t know whose to take.

_Merlin, that must be nice._

Vivianne took a deep breath. “No—it really wouldn’t. But …” She tried to smile. “Thanks for the offer.”

Zach shrugged with a smile of his own. She could see the faint disappointment in his eyes and wished it didn’t make her feel like one of the slugs Antony had belched up.

“Anyway—let’s get started. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to have anyone blaming us for stealing a potential hour of free time. Here …” She quickly sorted through the scraps of runes. “These ones are all by themselves, so they should be fairly straightforward. I’ll take the more complicated inscriptions.”

“All right,” Zach said. He didn’t say anything else as they got to work.

Vivianne took a few deep breaths and tried to force herself to focus on the runes in front of her.

And for a good twenty minutes, it worked. She was able to lose herself in the translation, worrying about nothing more than whether the message that was forming under her pen made sense, especially given where the runes had been found and what they were probably used for.

Then her luck ran out.

It seemed to start out innocently. “Um, Vivianne,” Zach asked. “Can I have a hand? I can’t find this one in your dictionary …”

Vivianne looked up. She narrowed her eyes at the rune. “That—that is an unusual one …” She started to reach across Zach for her dictionary.

Her wand was lying between them. Vivianne knew that the heat was rising in her when her hand brushed Zach’s. And her wand was also touching her arm—

Maybe the wand just gave off a spark. Maybe it was something a little more powerful than that.

Whatever it was, it set Zach’s jumper on fire. He shouted and swore, pawing for his own wand.

Sybilla—of course Sybilla was faster. She turned around at the first shout and her wand was in her hand almost at once. “ _Aguamenti_!”

A jet of water shot from her wand, and Zach’s jumper wasn’t on fire anymore.

“Oh—oh Merlin! I am _so sorry_ , Zach! I don’t—”

“What happened?” Professor Zanetti demanded.

Vivianne looked up. When had the teachers ended up all around their desks? “I—my wand must have—sparked or something—Zach, I am _so sorry_ —”

“It’s okay, Vivianne,” Zach said.

Vivianne’s jaw fell. _It’s ok?_ She’d set him on fire—and it was _ok_? That couldn’t be true. He had to be lying.

“It was an accident,” Zach went on. “Look, I’m fine. My jumper, not so much, but I’m okay.”

“I think we’ll be the judge of that, Mr. Duncan. Let me see your arm,” Professor Lipskit said. Zach stood up, and Professor Lipskit waved his wand a couple of times to get a better look at Zach’s arm. “Does it hurt?” he asked.

“A little,” Zach admitted. He rubbed his hair with his free hand, and Vivianne wanted to die.

“Right, you’re off to the infirmary then,” Professor Lipskit nodded. “I’m not taking a chance. And Miss Cromwell …”

“Professor, I know you don’t want us using healing spells, but a student was _on fire_ ,” Sybilla pointed out.

Professor Lipskit raised an eyebrow at her. “I was going to say, ‘Good thinking.’”

“Ah. Well, in that case, thank you.”

“You’re most welcome. Now, off to the infirmary with you. And somebody should go with you, just in case.”

“I’ll go, Professor—” Spencer started.

“No—I’ll go. It was my bloody fault anyway,” Vivianne said.

“Vivianne,” Professor Kilduff said. “It was an accident. It could happen to anyone.”

Vivianne wouldn’t have believed her – but Zach was, somehow, still smiling.

Slowly, she nodded. She gathered Zach’s things – Spencer helped – and holding onto them, she said, “Come – come on then. Let’s go.”

Not wanting to look at the rest of the class – not wanting to see them laughing at her – Vivianne hurried out, pausing only to hold the door for Zach.

“Vivianne—” Zach tried to say as soon as they were out of the classroom.

“I’ll buy you a new jumper,” she said. “And a shirt, if you need one. And—I still owe you for that bloody Butterbeer.”

“… Okay,” Zach said.

She didn’t know whether that made her feel better or feel worse.

So she swallowed and tossed her hair, trying to center herself on – something. “And I really am sorry.”

“I know, Vivianne,” Zach said. “It’s okay.”


	24. Chapter 23: Tell Me 'Bout the Good Old Days

**Chapter 23: Tell Me ‘Bout the Good Old Days**

There was a point at which stir-crazy was going to trump the threat of getting hexed. Most of Gryffindor Tower had reached that point. Ben was _definitely_ at that point. If he didn’t find something else to do with his time, he was going to start hexing people in the tower himself. He’d have even taken detention at this point if only to see another set of walls.

He was in the library, not the closest point to Gryffindor Tower, but one of the safer ones, especially as some elements of every house were now irked with him. There was no way to know, turning down a hall, if there was going to be a hex war to dodge – and there were some students with friends in Gryffindor or Slytherin who now were buried in detention after getting busted tossing hexes.

He’d heard Rove grumbling to Professor Flitwick just that morning about the state of the castle, about Slytherin with their instigating many of these hex wars, with Gryffindor for responding in kind – and himself specifically. Flitwick had just laughed and told him that he could think of at least a dozen times it was worse than this.

But it had definitely made Ben a bit grouchy when a very self-important owl had arrived with a letter tied to its ankle. He’d recognized the calligraphy on the envelope immediately and had categorically refused to deal with the letter right then. He still hadn’t dealt with the letter, other than dragging it around with him all day.

It was peeking just slightly out of where it was squashed between his heavy Ancient Runes text and his equally heavy History of Magic text. And not dealing with things – as his aunt would remind him – never made them go away. The library was maybe half full, mostly of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, with a minor sprinkle of Gryffindors and Slytherins. Apparently if Gryffindor was going to escape the tower, they weren’t going to coop themselves up under Pince’s watchful eye.

So with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he slid the envelope out of its hiding place and flipped it over, taking just a moment to run his finger along the coat of arms pressed into the wax seal. It spoke to something in him. He had a stamp with that same coat of arms up in an old tin box painted with the Lone Ranger, hidden in his trunk in his wardrobe in his dorm. It had been his mother’s.

He popped the seal open and slid the thin sheaf of paper out.

His eyes scanned over the thin spindly antique calligraphy, seeing more and more red with every line. By the time he reached the signature – and just above it the conclusion that the author was sure he would agree was best for everyone – he wanted to murder something. He could have guessed – he maybe should have – but seeing it all lined out in dark ink flecked with just the barest hint of gold just …

… pissed him off.

He shoved the letter into his stack of books, which he slung into his bookbag, and left the library. His thoughts were not too eloquent, and they were running in – admittedly tiny – little circles. Something along the lines of _Fuck her—where does she get off—fucking bitch_ then back to the beginning again. Even though he’d long since decided that he was going to avoid the hex wars if he could – if Rove was blaming him this much for things that he hadn’t done anything to instigate, he shuddered to think what the Headmaster would make of it if he got involved – he’d have taken one right now.

But even though he passed two groups of Slytherins, one on his way to the tower, one on his way down to the doors leading to the courtyard, both of them just stepped out of his way, no hint of a wand being drawn or anything.

He had no idea what he was going to do out there in the rain, but as long as there was something to hit, he supposed he’d find—

“Ben!” Booker stuck his head out of a classroom door. “Where are you off to?” he asked when Ben turned toward him.

“Out.”

“Out?” Booker looked over his shoulder at the window, where the rain wasn’t so much falling in drops as sheets – and visibility was nonexistent. “In that?”

“Booker?” A voice came from somewhere in the gloomy classroom that couldn’t be seen from the door. A female voice. Ben’s eyebrow quirked and Booker grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into the classroom. There were two desks close – but not too close – together. Sitting on one of the desks was a very pretty dark-eyed, tan-skinned girl. Her headscarf was silver with patterning in Slytherin green, matched, he noticed, by the striped leggings she wore under her uniform. And as he got closer, her manicure – one of those colored French manicures – fit the theme: green on the bed of the nail, silver on the tip.

“Uh, Niketa—this is my friend Ben. Ben—this is Niketa,” Booker said, looking back and forth between them.

“Ah, the one from America?” Niketa glanced at Booker before looking appraisingly at Ben.

“That’d be me, pleased to meet you.” Ben smiled.

“Are you?” Niketa’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“I haven’t got a reason _not_ to be—and I doubt Booker’d have introduced us if _he_ had a reason for me not to be.” Ben shrugged.

“Sensible does not match your reputation.” Niketa bowed her head slightly to him.

“That’s the way of reputations,” Ben told her, returning the bow.

“You do not seem concerned.” Niketa cocked her head to the side.

“By my reputation? Nah, like Joan Jett, I don’t give a damn about my bad reputation.” He quirked his mouth up at the corner. “People worry too much about their reputations, given that they don’t have a thing to do with who you actually _are_.”

Niketa actually smiled at that before looking at Booker.

“Ben said he was going out—in _that_ —with a pissed expression on his face. I figured I ought to talk him down before he did that,” Booker told her with a gesture toward the window.

“My housemates?” Niketa asked. Ben shook his head honestly.

“Well, the person I’m ticked at is a _former_ Slytherin, but so long ago that I could hardly blame anyone here for that.” Ben sighed.

“What happened?” Booker’s honest, open face was concerned.

“I got a letter from the old bat.”

Booker blinked. “From your grandmother Corbie? About what?”

Ben grimaced and held out the envelope, which he’d stuffed in his pocket.

“Uh—wow,” Booker said after he read the letter.

“The women in my family certainly don’t lack for balls.” Ben smirked.

Booker snickered before glancing at Niketa and blushing slightly.

“Are you going to do what she suggested?” Booker asked a moment later.

“Hmmm. Well, my first, second, and third responses to that all rhyme with Bell Ducking Slow, if that helps.” Niketa actually laughed at that, throwing her head back with unrestrained mirth. “I’ve never based any other decision in my life off what C. Madeline wanted me to do. I can’t see starting now.”

“Wait, C. Madeline Corbie?” Niketa asked, curiosity and surprise equal in her tone.

“Yep, that one, if you know her.” Ben nodded.

“Again by reputation. Hers is formidable.”

“So far as I can tell … that one’s closer than mine is.”

“What does she wish you to do that you don’t wish to do?”

“Break up with Rowan.” Ben scrubbed his hand across the back of his neck and leaned against the blackboard behind him, staring up at the ceiling.

“Will your parents care?” Niketa asked softly.

“My mom was less than a year older than me when she spoke to her mother for the last time. I somehow doubt she’d really want me to blindly follow every dictate C. Madeline makes.” Ben flicked his glance at the windows. “Unfortunately, I’ll never know for certain—mediumism isn’t a talent I’ve got.”

“Does Mrs. Corbie state a reason for this?” Niketa’s hand cupped her mouth and chin when Ben’s eyes flicked toward her, though he got the impression that even had she not, he wouldn’t be able to read much into her expression.

“The usual. You know _of_ my girlfriend, I’m guessing.”

“As it is all anyone will talk about in anything louder than a whisper in my house for days, you are correct.” Niketa shrugged. “If Mrs. Corbie cannot give you a better reason than cliché, then there is no real reason, and thus no reason for you to follow her path.”

“You know—that’s pretty good advice,” Ben said with a smile that she echoed.

“When I retire from dueling, it is my plan to move to some remote mountain top and become a Siddha—a wise woman, as the English might call it.” Niketa grinned slyly.

Ben couldn’t help but laugh. It didn’t make what C. Madeline had said any more palatable, but he did feel better, at least.

* * *

“So,” Jon said. They were camped out in the common room, books and papers spread between them, because both had realized that sooner or later one of the Gryffindors or one of the Slytherins was going to realize that Rowan was, in fact, involved in this whole debacle and might decide to take issue with it. “You know … we have a perfect opportunity right now.”

“F-f-for what?” Rowan asked.

“For you to kiss and tell,” Jon said, poking her with a quill. “Think about it. Candice isn’t here to gag, Blair isn’t here to look disapproving, and Aubrey and Quill aren’t here to stick their fingers in their ears and go ‘la-la-la, I can’t hear you!’” He frowned. “Or at least, it’s a good time for you to tell. You already did the kissing part.”

Rowan laughed, even if she was blushing. She elbowed Jon. “Blair wouldn’t be d-d-disapproving of kissing.”

“Kissing, no. Telling?” Jon raised an eyebrow at her.

“… You have a p-p-point,” Rowan admitted. She pushed her hair back behind her ear, even though she could feel the heat rising in her face. But Jon wouldn’t make fun of her … too much. “S-so – what do you w-want to know?”

“Let’s start with ‘all the gory details’ and stop there for a while, and then, once you’ve told me all of that, we’ll figure out what else there is to tell.”

“What, _all_? Aren’t I allowed any s-secrets, Jon?” Rowan gasped, putting her hand over her heart and letting her eyelashes flutter.

“Nope!” Jon replied cheerfully. “And no complaining. I gave you all the gory details when I got together with Austin.”

“You gave them to m-me _and_ p-poor Zach,” Rowan countered. She shook her head. “I thought he w-was g-going to m-melt into a puddle of embarrassment.”

Jon sighed and shook his head. “Straight boys …”

“It’s n-n-not just s-straight boys. It’s Z-Zach. You know that a lot of straight b-boys – well, it’s n-not like they don’t k-kiss and t-tell. They just d-don’t call it that. B-but Zach is … a gentleman.”

“A gentleman,” Jon repeated. “That’s a nice way of putting it. But I’m not, so – spill.”

Rowan laughed, but she spilled. More or less. And only after she’d glanced around and made sure that no one was in earshot. And … there might have been a couple of things she kept to herself. A girl had to have her secrets.

And Jon helped, mainly by fixating on one particular detail. “You asked _him_ out? Rowan! I am so proud of you!” He put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed. “Good going, it’s about time!”

“Oh, s-stop,” Rowan tried to laugh it off. “It’s n-not like—he _did_ k-kiss me first.” _Twice._ She was keeping that part, however, firmly to herself. “And he p-practically told me his answer would be y-yes before I even asked.”

“Baby steps,” Jon replied, waving his hand. “But still. I’m happy for you.”

Rowan grinned. “Th-thanks. Now we j-j-just have to n-not get hexed into p-pieces by Slytherins.”

“You know, I do wonder about that,” Jon mused. “I mean, your boy is one of the most notorious pranksters to hit this school since the Weasley twins. You’d think he and his friends would come up with something epic to pull on the Slytherins that would get them off their cases.”

Rowan raised an eyebrow. “Jon. S-seriously? No Slytherins would let that stand. We’d g-g-go from s-skirmishes to all-out w-warfare.” She frowned. “And b-besides—with the way Rove is b-being about Ben his friends, any major p-pranks on the Slytherins would probably just g-get them expelled.”

“And that would be awful.”

Rowan and Jon looked up.

“Sorry,” said Blair with an apologetic smile. “I couldn’t help overhearing the last of that.” She sat on the couch across from Jon and Rowan, adjusting her jumper so that it lay just so. “So—what are you two working on?”

Rowan and Jon stared at her. But it wasn’t because of what she did. Or even what she said.

They looked at Blair, then at each other, then back to Blair.

Rowan was the first to find her courage and a way to speak, or at least she was the first to start. “Um, B-Blair, are th-those …”

“ _Trousers_?” Jon finished for her.

They both stared below Blair’s waist.

“Oh—um—yes,” Blair said. She experimentally kicked a leg out. “I thought I’d—well—I’d never worn trousers before. Before, um, last weekend …” She swallowed and twirled a curl around her finger. “And I thought—they were, you know, rather comfortable. And. Um. Freeing …” She stared again at her outstretched leg. “You don’t—you don’t have to constantly worry about how you’re sitting, for one.”

“N-no,” Rowan agreed, because someone had to say something and Jon didn’t seem capable. “That’s—that’s p-part of why I w-wear them m-m-most of the t-time when I’m n-not in uniform.”

“Where—if you don’t mind me asking,” Jon asked, “where did you get them?”

“Oh—um—Aubrey let me borrow a pair of his.” Now Blair was sticking her hands in the pockets, more than a little anxiously. “I had to use a couple Stretching Spells – and some Shrinking Spells too – but I think they look pretty good, don’t you think?” Blair bit her lip, staring at her legs.

“Y-yes,” said Rowan at once.

“You bet, honey,” Jon said at the same time.

They exchanged glances for a fraction of second before turning back to Blair.

Blair was … _grinning_. She laughed. “I really do like them.”

Rowan glanced again at Jon. Jon’s eyebrows were up about as far as they could go. Rowan bit her lip.

“Y-you know,” Rowan said, “I th-think – Noelle has a G-Gladrags catalog – maybe s-she would let us b-b-borrow it—we c-could order you a c-couple pairs of your own.”

Blair looked up. “Oh? Do you think …” She bit her lip. “I mean … I know more and more witches are wearing trousers … but it’s still not …”

“M-my mum wears t-trousers. All the t-t-time,” Rowan pointed out.

“Your mum hunts down Dark Wizards for a living …” Blair frowned.

“My mum doesn’t, and she wears a lot of trousers. Leggings too. And Wendy designs some,” Jon said.

Blair blinked. “That’s … that’s very true.”

“And,” Rowan went on, “it’ll be easy to order y-you some t-trousers from a c-catalog. You know your m-measurements, right? I mean—it’s not like M-Muggle stores, where you’re a d-different s-size in every s-store you walk into.”

“That’s what Muggle stores do?” asked Blair, jaw hanging open. Even Jon looked surprised.

“Only f-f-for g-girls,” Rowan said, shrugging at the pair of them. “I don’t g-get it either. But if anything is g-g-going to g-get me into robes full-time, I s-swear, it’ll be that.” She pushed her hair back out of her face, smiling her most winsome smile. “So. What d-d-do you think, Blair?”

Blair glanced at her trousers again.

She _smiled_.

“Let’s do it.”

* * *

If Zach were going to start complaining about his duties as prefect, he probably would start with the fact that being a prefect meant that everyone seemed to assume that you could fix any problem – or at least they assumed that with Zach. They didn’t seem to drop quite so many problems into Juliette’s lap. Though, admittedly, he wouldn’t have sent for Juliette for this one either. Miri’s friend Haley had come to him, concerned. Miri had disappeared after class, not returning to the common room. Normally he wouldn’t have been that worried; Miri, he’d noticed, was one prone to long walks around the grounds of the school and a frequent visitor of the giant squid in the lake.

But right now, with the hex wars making all but the most commonly roamed hallways practically a trap, and the rain seeming more like slush than like drops, not coming back to the basement was more than a little worrisome. If she had been sent to the infirmary, Madame Pomfrey would have let them know, but that meant very little. He loped down a hallway, interrupting two couples snogging, one couple arguing, and five students (two each from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, the last a Gryffindor) who looked more affronted by Zach looking than that one girl whose knickers went over his head – and would have smacked him straight in the face if he hadn’t ducked.

“Oh, c’mon! One off, I swear to god Rodney cursed the bloody dice. I knew I should have brought my wizard/bard instead.”

“And you get fire damage! Roll them cursed bones, baby,” the Gryffindor crowed.

“Ugh, doesn’t anyone have anything better to do than go through old tombs and set up this many traps?” one of the girls groaned.

“Seriously, Rod, how ‘bout some story immersion when you’re DM?”

“You can have story immersion _and_ fire traps.”

“Not every three turns! If this were all the same guy, you can tell he never got shagged.”

“Sorta like Rodney,” the students crowed. “There, all healed.”

The conversation faded as Zach turned the corner, taking him closer to the dungeons and the classrooms that the Slytherins tended to be found in. Zach’s concern picked up a little, especially when he saw two students ahead of him.

“Jamesie, she’s _crying_.” That was Belle Deveraux.

“And the Fat Friar is in there with her, so we don’t need to be,” James Fawley huffed. The prissy sixth-year Slytherin prefect was straightening a cuff on his jumper. “Between the extra rounds to make certain that nobody got hexed and just left in a hall, Quidditch practice, and course work, we hardly get any alone time. I’m sure that the Hufflepuff house ghost is perfectly capable of looking after one Hufflepuff first year.”

“Excuse me,” Zach murmured, sliding past the two Slytherins. As he might have guessed, the room was occupied with exactly the person he was looking for.

“There, Hufflepuff prefect. Can we go now?” James muttered.

“If you don’t learn what empathy is, Jamesie, you and Blake are going to end up snogging each other if you want some ‘alone time,’” Belle said as they walked down the hall.

“There are other girls, Belle.”

“And I can make sure not a single one of them wants to date you next,” Belle told him with the same basic intonation as one might use to comment on the weather. _Got to love Slytherins._ Zach gave himself a moment to roll his eyes.

“I would ask him if you wanted me to. I’m certain if he knew how important it was, he’d return it.” The Fat Friar hovered in the air next to Miri, looking for all the world like he was perched on the desk next to her, looking very concerned.

Miri shook her head. “It’s not that important,” Miri muttered.

“Miri?” Zach asked softly.

“Hullo, Zach,” the ghost said, offering him a wide welcoming smile before turning back to Miri, who pulled her knees up to her chest.

“Is something wrong?” Zach asked, walking over to the desk by where Miri sat, pulling himself up onto the desk top.

“No,” Miri said.

“Okay, lemme rephrase that. Something is wrong, and I know it—now will you tell me willingly, or will I have to pester it out of you? I have a pretty good sad Crup face, you know,” Zach said.

“I can’t tell you without tattling,” Miri said. “… And you’re a prefect.”

“Why don’t you tell me not as a prefect, but as a friend, and we’ll figure out how we can get this settled without me having to put on that hat?” Though he’d bet half his pocket money that it had something to do with Dara. He looked over Miri’s head at the Fat Friar, who nodded; the ghost wouldn’t break Miri’s confidence, but he’d point Zach in the right direction, if it came to that.

“… Peeves has Henry’s lucky cap,” Miri muttered to her hands.

“And how did Peeves get it?” He knew that cap. Her brother had left it with her when he deployed, and it was one of the few things that she had of Henry’s. Miri treated it with the reverence of a priceless artifact. There was no way that she’d have left it somewhere that Peeves could have gotten it.

“I was dumb. We had a test in Professor Flitwick’s class—and it was an important one—so I—I put it in my book bag. It was supposed to be lucky, right?” Miri sniffled. “And somebody—somebody took it. And—it got—it got tossed around in the hall. And Peeves dove in out of nowhere and grabbed it and took it.”

Translation, if Zach was any judge: Dara stole it out of Miri’s bag, and she and Chandler – who was basically a male Dara – had been playing keep-away with it while Miri had tried desperately to get it back.

The part about Peeves was more than likely relatively accurate.

So now the getting the hat back part. Far be it from him to think like a Slytherin, but he _could_ probably arrange it so Juliette figured out what happened on her own. As Juliette had spent more than a couple of hours this year smoothing wrinkles and soothing people because Dara was a little brat – and those areas weren’t exactly the ones that spoke to Juliette’s strengths – she’d be glad to come down on the kid.

If that didn’t work, maybe he could convince Spencer to have his girlfriend have a chat with her.

“C’mon,” Zach said, hopping off the desk he was perched on as a thought occurred to him.

“Where are we gonna go?” Miri asked, setting her chin stubbornly.

“To talk with my—well—friend of a friend, Ben,” Zach said.

“Why?”

“Because I think he can get your cap back—and that’s a lot more important than anything else right now.” Zach offered Miri his hand, and she allowed herself to be helped off the desk, falling into step beside him, even if she looked reluctant.

As luck would have it, the young man he was looking for was outside the Great Hall talking with a few of his friends.

“Zach, what can I do you for?” Ben smiled broadly. “And before my aunt grabs m’ ear and pulls it clear from across the pond, might I ask for an introduction to your friend here?”

“This is Miri,” Zach said. “Miri, this is Ben.”

“Wow, you’re—big,” Miri said, staring up at Ben.

“ _Sooo_ many things to say to that—so many hexes I’d get hit with if I even tried it,” Ben snickered. “So, I dunno where m’lady is, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Uh, no, actually I wanted to ask you if you might do me a favor.” Zach rubbed the back of his neck.

“I dunno, my favors are pretty steep, but whatcha need?” Ben asked.

“Uh—you have a pretty good rapport with Peeves, right?” Zach said.

Ben shrugged. “Fair, I guess. Why?” He quirked an eyebrow.

“Um, Peeves has absconded with Miri’s brother’s cap. It’s pretty important to her,” Zach said.

Ben looked at Miri, who was staring at her feet. Something odd seemed to pass between them, nothing said, nothing that Zach could identify, but something.

“Sure,” Ben said. “I’ll be back.” He affected a strange accent as he near growled it. Zach didn’t get it, but Miri giggled.

“Well, it’s not too long before dinner, maybe we should just stay here?” Zach asked. Miri shrugged and watched Ben head off into the gloom of one of the hallways.

They made their way into the Great Hall, seating themselves at their usual places at the Hufflepuff table. Haley, who appeared a few minutes later, seemed relieved that Miri was in one piece, and the way that she glared at Dara told Zach that the first year had more than likely already planned out a comeuppance for the other girl.

The food had just appeared on the table; Professor Rove was glaring at the empty seat between Ringo and Cameron at the Gryffindor table when the door opened. Ben grinned, irrepressibly as ever, as all eyes shot to him. He was carrying a cap in one hand and a handful of flowers in the other, and he was walking toward Miri.

“Your cap, Miss.” Ben handed it to her, the girl’s gray eyes shimmering with unspilled tears. “And these are also for you, from Peeves, who most humbly begs your pardon for taking your hat. He’d have returned it himself, but he’s not allowed in the Great Hall,” Ben drawled as he flourished the flowers at her.

“Really?” Miri asked. Ben drew a cross over his heart before heading over to his seat at the Gryffindor table.

“I didn’t think Peeves knew _how_ to apologize,” Spencer muttered to Zach. Dara shifted when she suddenly went pale, and gasped, though she never said and it never would be explained what happened. Spencer chuckled and Haley smiled after … whatever it was.

Miri, however, was staring at the flowers, a single tear making its way down her cheek.

* * *

The morning after Ben Moore had presented a first-year with a bouquet of flowers and a boy’s cap, Vivianne kept an eye on the ceiling as she ate her breakfast. It wasn’t just the weather, which continued miserably. She was looking for—

An arm snaked around her shoulder. Vivianne bit back a sigh as she shrugged it off. “Blake, people are eating,” she said, not taking her eyes from the ceiling.

“So?” Blake asked. He scooted a little nearer to Vivianne, and it took every ounce of Vivianne’s self-control not to scoot away from him. “It’s just an arm, love. Not like we’re snogging at the table.” He reached up and brushed her hair back from her face, his fingers just touching her cheek.

“We’re in public,” Vivianne said tightly.

“We’re in a public school,” Blake answered, his own voice becoming tighter with every word. “We’re always in public—unless you want to go to an empty classroom, which you never seem to have time for. And need I remind you – in Madam Puddifoot’s, people were eating, _and_ we were in public, and neither seemed to bother you then?”

Vivianne took a deep breath and told herself that murder was punishable by up to a lifetime in Azkaban, no matter what spells or potions were used to commit it, and right now, there were too many witnesses to risk anything.

“Oh!” Belle said. “Look! The post is here!”

_Thank MERLIN!_

Vivianne looked up, scanning the descending owls for her mother’s screech owl, Lamorak. Her mother never questioned Vivianne if she asked for more pocket money, which was a good thing, because she did not want to have to explain to her grandmother that she accidentally set a boy’s arm on fire. The downside was that her mother was not exactly quick about replying to letters.

So busy was she looking that she did not notice another owl winging its way down from the ceiling – though Sybilla did. However, Vivianne would have had to be deaf not to hear the, “Son of a—” followed by enough invective to make a sailor blush.

Vivianne didn’t ask. There was no point in asking, especially since everyone in earshot (about three people) was staring at Sybilla. But she could follow Sybilla’s gaze, and when she saw what Sybilla was seeing, she hissed. “Is that—”

“Yes,” Sybilla said, bracing herself, her eyes never leaving the eagle owl.

“With …?”

“It appears so,” Sybilla replied.

Both of them stared at the red envelope affixed to the owl’s left leg.

The owl spread its wings, gliding down for a landing—

And flew over their heads, winging its way silently to the high table.

Where it landed in front of Professor Yaxley, who jumped – took one look at the Howler – and grabbed it roughly from the owl, practically running from the Hall.

“Oh, _motherfucker,_ ” Sybilla whispered.

“If I know your family dynamics, the problem is with the mother, not the motherfucker,” Vivianne answered. She glanced across the Hall to the Hufflepuff table.

It had not escaped her that Spencer sat himself on the far side of the table, where he could see Sybilla. He was watching Sybilla now, not even hiding the concern and confusion. Vivianne nudged Sybilla and nodded to him.

The color rose in Sybilla’s face. Spencer was mouthing … something … probably asking what was going on.

Sybilla only had time to shake her head before Professor Yaxley stormed back into the Hall. “Sybilla Cromwell!” she shouted – probably about as loudly as the Howler had been shouting at her. “Come here, this instant!”

Sybilla clenched her jaw, but that was the only reaction she gave. Head held high, she rose and made her way down the Hall, as if Professor Yaxley had merely politely requested her presence, not shouted loudly enough to wake the dead.

Vivianne watched as Spencer watched her go. He seemed about to stand up, but Zach Duncan on one side and Trevor what’s-his-name on the other each put a hand on his shoulder and kept him down.

“Well,” Blake murmured, mostly to his eggs and sausage, “looks like there might be trouble in paradise there.”

Vivianne glared at him. “There are worse things than dating a half-blood Hufflepuff.”

Blake snorted. “You sure you want to go down that path in earshot of …” He didn’t finish the sentence, but he did nod down the table to Niketa, who was delicately bringing a forkful of fried tomato to her mouth as if she had not a care in the world.

But there was someone between Blake and where Niketa was sitting. Someone whom Vivianne couldn’t help but notice.

Cornelia, with Troy on one side, Frida and Trish directly across from her. Frida looked cold and unconcerned. Trish was giggling. Cornelia simply smirked at her breakfast.

She seemed to sense Vivianne’s gaze, for she looked up and her smirk deepened.

_Oh, you_ bitch _._

Cornelia – Cornelia she would deal with later. Vivianne turned to Blake instead with a raised eyebrow and a sickly-sweet smile. “Blake, I don’t know what you’re talking about. There _are_ worse things than dating a half-blood Hufflepuff, and I doubt very many people will take offense to what I’m thinking about.” The smile dropped away. “Like dating a complete and utter ass!”

She left Blake sputtering as she gathered her things and Sybilla’s, and he was still sputtering when she hurried from the Great Hall, following the same route Professor Yaxley and Sybilla had taken.

Not that it did her much, if any, good. By the time Professor Yaxley let Sybilla out of the empty classroom she’d dragged her into – the former leaving the room with a scowl Vivianne’s mother would point out was sure to cause wrinkles – Vivianne only had time to hand Sybilla her bag before the two of them had to dash to Transfiguration.

There was no sign of Spencer on the way, which was probably just as well. Sybilla’s eyes had a glassy, brittle look in them. Behind it was anger – it was always anger with Sybilla – but it was the kind of anger used not as a sword, but as a shield.

Vivianne didn’t know how they made it through Transfiguration. She tried to listen as Professor Puccini droned on and on about – something – Switching Spells, maybe? She didn’t care. She’d worry about getting the notes later. She was too busy watching Sybilla.

Sybilla sat stiffly, only bothering to take the bare minimum of notes. Every so often Cornelia turned to her, hissing slightly and shaking her head. If Vivianne thought she could have gotten away with it, Cornelia would have left the room with a jackass’s ears and a laugh that brayed even more than it usually did.

As it was, Vivianne hooked her arm through Sybilla’s as soon as class was over, and ignoring Cornelia and Troy, dragged her into the first classroom that was likely to be empty. “What did the old bat say?” Vivianne asked, pointing her wand at the door to lock it.

Sybilla narrowed her eyes at the door. “Vivianne, don’t you have …”

“To hell with History of Magic. Binns wouldn’t notice if a student dropped dead in front of him. He’s certainly not going to care if one student doesn’t show up.” She hopped onto a desk, eyebrow raised and arms crossed in front of her. “What. Happened?”

Sybilla blinked. Then, sighing, she sat on the desk across from Vivianne’s. “My mother sent Professor Yaxley a Howler. But you probably already guessed that.”

Vivianne said nothing. She tilted her head to the side and waited.

“She wants me to fire talk her _as soon as possible_ ,” Sybilla spat. “Professor Yaxley told me to report to her office right after dinner.”

“This is about Spencer, isn’t it?”

Sybilla shrugged, staring at the chalkboard off to the side. “What else would it be about? It’s not like Mother would care about anything else I’ve done recently.”

Vivianne nodded. “I’m pretty sure Cornelia is the one who blew you in.”

“I guessed as much.”

“We’ll make her wish she was never born later,” Vivianne promised. “For now …” She raised an eyebrow. “Is breaking up—or appearing to break up—with Spencer a possibility?”

The only answer she got to that was a look that was just shy of murderous, and Vivianne supposed she was lucky for the “just shy” bit.

She raised her hands in front of her. “I’m only asking, Sybilla. It would be one of the … simpler courses of action.” She frowned. “Although perhaps not. Sneaking around Cornelia would almost certainly be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Why the bloody hell does she have to care about this?” Sybilla asked. Her hand passed just under each of her eyes – if this was anyone else, the gesture would have wiped away tears.

Vivianne didn’t ask if the “she” in question was Cornelia or Sybilla’s mother. “Right now, Sybilla … that doesn’t really matter. What matters is what we’re going to do about it.”

Sybilla snorted. “We? Professor Yaxley is not going to let you come with me so you can try to sweet-talk my mother around. Though I doubt even _you_ could manage that.”

“Well, no,” Vivianne admitted, “but you have to admit, Sybilla, when it comes to … interpersonal relations … I do have a talent that you don’t.” She hesitated. “Particularly when ‘hex first, ask questions later’ isn’t an option.”

That at least won a snort out of Sybilla.

Vivianne smiled. “If you’re not going to pretend not to be seeing Spencer anymore, you’re going to need to lie to her, Sybilla.”

Sybilla winced. “My mother is _not_ easy to lie to.”

No, Vivianne supposed, she really wasn’t. Sybilla had gotten some of her demeanor from her mother – little as she liked to admit it. And Sybilla’s demeanor did encourage honesty.

“Perhaps not, but …” Vivianne’s eyes narrowed. “There’s lying … and then there’s lying.”

Sybilla looked her in the eye – finally. She raised an eyebrow.

“Sybilla dear,” Vivianne asked, a smirk just beginning to bloom, “would you say that you’re looking forward to this little conversation just after dinner?”

“Oh for—oh, _yes_ , Vivianne, I’m …”

Vivianne raised both her eyebrows and waited.

Sybilla trailed off. “… Vivianne?”

“Easy, isn’t it?” Vivianne replied. “Sarcasm does become you, Sybilla. Now, tell me – are you dating Spencer?”

Sybilla blinked – then she grinned. “Oh, _yes_ , Mother.” She chortled. “We’re just _madly_ in love. And the fact that I’m dragging the Cromwell name through the mud makes it _even better_.”

“Very good,” Vivianne replied. “See, Sybilla? You’ve got this.”

* * *

Vivianne, however, was not willing to let that be put to chance. She tried to be calm throughout the day – Sybilla tried too – and though both had good poker faces, Vivianne wondered if either was successful. Skipping History of Magic was probably the smartest thing she did all day. She certainly didn’t learn anything else in any of her other classes.

Professor Yaxley, not wanting to risk the wrath of Aurelia Cromwell, ate her own dinner as quickly as she could while remaining ladylike. Then she walked straight to the Slytherin table and glared at Sybilla until she gathered her things and followed her from the Great Hall.

Vivianne forced herself to eat for another ten minutes, trying to look unconcerned. It was hard, given Belle’s frowns and Cornelia’s barely-constrained glee.

But after ten minutes – when other upperclassmen were starting to get their things together and go – Vivianne judged it safe to leave the table. She headed out the door that led to the Slytherin dungeons.

Not that she went to the common room. She went instead to the hallway where Professor Yaxley’s office was. For a minute she wished she’d thought to have given Sybilla the Weasley coins they had used in Hogsmeade, but realized that probably would have gotten them into more trouble than it would have been worth.

She ducked into Dungeon 3, took a book from her bag, and tried to read.

The door opened three minutes later. Vivianne looked up—

It was only Spencer. “Hello,” he said. “You mind if …?”

Vivianne raised an eyebrow. “I take it Sybilla told you.”

Spencer nodded.

“Then sit over there.” Vivianne nodded to the right side of the classroom. Spencer’s brows furrowed. “Professor Yaxley’s office is in that direction. And the door opens inside and to the right—well, my right, your left. If you sit over there, behind the door, you have a better chance of not being seen by someone opening the door.”

Spencer frowned, but he did as Vivianne had said. As soon as he sat, he rubbed both his temples.

Vivianne hesitated. She had meant to let Spencer know what kind of pain he’d be in for if he dared to hurt Sybilla …

But judging by his frown and miserable eyes, he was in quite enough pain already.

Vivianne sighed. “You know this isn’t your fault.”

“It isn’t?” he asked.

“First, Sybilla is a big girl and is quite capable of making her own decisions,” Vivianne pointed out. “Second … and arguably more important … it was bloody Cornelia who blew the two of you in. I’m practically certain of it.” Vivianne shrugged. “If you’re going to blame anyone, blame her. It’s what I’m doing.”

“I will … keep that in mind,” Spencer replied.

After that, there didn’t seem to be much to say. Vivianne stared at her book and Spencer stared at his desk.

They kept that up until the door slowly opened and Sybilla slipped inside.

Vivianne dropped her book. “How—”

Sybilla held up her finger. She pointed her wand at the door and made a complicated motion. “There,” she said, “that should—Spencer?”

“Hey,” he said, standing up. “Are you all right?”

Sybilla’s jaw had fallen. She looked from Spencer to Vivianne and back again.

Vivianne sighed, and once again, she found some pity in her heart. Twice in one day, this had to be a record. “So,” she asked, “did my brilliant plan work?”

Sybilla found the wherewithal to smirk. “Brilliantly.”

“Excellent.” Vivianne rose and swept her things into her bag. “I’ll leave the two of you to it, then. Try to make it back by curfew. I’ll be expecting all the gory details, Sybilla.” She shouldered her bag, nodded to the pair of them, and left the room – making certain that Sybilla and Spencer both were behind the door when she opened it.

Tossing her head, Vivianne adjusted her bag and started down the hall to the common room.

“So,” asked a petulant voice behind her, “what am I supposed to make of the fact that you’ll spend ten minutes together in an empty classroom with Spencer Hood, but will barely give me the time of the day in the common room?”

_Oh, bloody HELL._

Vivianne rolled her eyes. But she turned around with a simper.

Blake did not seem to be in the mood to take simpering. He scowled.

Vivianne walked up to him – stood on tiptoe – came closer …

And patted his cheek. “Just that you’re not trying hard enough, Blake.”

She turned back to the common room, leaving him gaping behind her.


	25. Chapter 24: Tin Man

**Chapter 24: Tin Man**

“I forgot to give this to you,” Vivianne was saying to Zach, who was trying to refuse whatever it was – it looked like money.

“Vivianne, it’s not important—and I’ve honestly never paid this much for a jumper in my entire life.”

It wasn’t working out for the kid.

Rowan was – well – to be honest, smirking as she looked on. However, Ben somehow doubted that Vivianne would have read her facial expressions quite well enough to tell that’s what she was doing.

“Good watch?” Ben murmured near Rowan’s ear; she jumped. Apparently she hadn’t seen him. How she missed him, he had no idea.

“T-they’re b-b-both s-stubborn,” Rowan told him. “Vivianne’s need to d-discharge a d-debt is warring w-with Zach’s need to be a g-gentleman. It’s a p-p-pretty epic s-struggle.” She hid her mouth in her robe, probably attempting to muffle any giggling that might reach the surface.

“Then buy a better jumper.” Finally Vivianne grabbed Zach’s hand, stuffed the coins into his palm, and forcibly closed his hand around it. And at that point, there was nothing else that Zach could do but acquiesce. _Once again, sneaky underhanded tactics win the day._ Ben smiled as the other boy shoved the money in his pocket and thanked her.

It might have stayed like that for Ben, just another day in paradise as the Phil Vassar song pointed out – except that Madam Pomfrey stuck her head in the door. Like the draft of cold air that swept into the room and chased all the good humor out of it, the room was suddenly full of solemn, vaguely miserable-looking students.

“Yes, Poppy?” Professor Kilduff’s mouth twitched at the side, wanting obviously to smile, but right now the school nurse just meant bad news for somebody.

“Passing along a message, mostly, Brigid. Mr. Moore, your aunt needs to speak with you,” she said, and for a second Ben could only blink. It didn’t make sense, even with his Corbie grandmother meddling, that it would be Charlotte, but the _only_ reason that Mary-Anne would contact him by anything other than the mail system was if something – well – bad had happened. Very bad.

He gathered up his books, feeling a hand lightly press against his forearm. He spared Rowan a smile; she looked probably more worried than he did.

“Have her transferred up to my office, Poppy,” Lipskit said, tossing something at Ben as he did so. Ben blinked as a bunch of keys impacted with his palm. “It’s the red one.” He didn’t tell Ben anything else. No _don’t disturb anything else_ , no _and don’t poke around when you’re there_. Ben nodded once to his head of house before disappearing into the gloom of the hallway.

He didn’t realize it was possible to trudge and sprint at the same time, but apparently it was – and he did as he headed for Lipskit’s office. The red key turned in the lock, and the oil lamp came up on its own. He moved the fireplace screen and plunked himself down on the hearth, arms wrapped around his knees.

“Benny.” The woman’s voice that came from the head in the fireplace was as slow and drawling as his own. “Nobody died.”

Well, that knocked the first couple of worries off the list, but there were more waiting in the wings to take their places. But still, relief relaxed his features for just a moment.

“What happened then? I mean not that I don’t appreciate the call, but …” He trailed off.

“Oh, Chester went over to the Millers’ to help Greg Miller try and fix that hunk of junk he calls a combine—and there was some sort of accident.” Ben’s aunt, a tall, stout woman, hair tied back in a knot that wasn’t _quite_ a no-nonsense schoolmarm’s knot, wrinkled her nose – the same nose his cousin had inherited.

“Accident?” Ben asked, his voice shaking. When you were talking a couple thousand pounds of metal, with blades the length of a car and an engine that the slightest bit of chaff from last harvest could start into a huge fire, “accident” was not reassuring.

Still, no one had died, and Mary-Anne sounded more grouchy than concerned; plus she had to be at home. It wasn’t like the nearest hospital had a fireplace hooked to the Floo Network. That had to mean something.

“Chester’s got a broken foot and a few dozen stitches in his leg. Greg, I’m told, had to have a finger reattached and has more stitches than Chester does, but he’s going to make a full recovery as well.” Mary-Anne sighed through her teeth. “It happens, Benny. Breathe.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. We’ve got you trained to think ‘the worst’ when it comes to farm accidents, and I’m sure the fact that I called is not helping any. Truth to tell, I might have just sent a note, but I wanted to see how you’re doing, too.” Mary-Anne tucked a strand of hair that was working its way from her knot behind her ear. “See it in a ‘you can’t hide from me behind a short note’ way.”

“You know me too well, Aunt Mary-Anne.”

“Of course I do.” Mary-Anne smirked, before it faded slightly and she glanced away. “You know the old bat sent me a letter; she wants me to have a talk with you.”

“About Rowan,” Ben said bitterly.

“And she ‘yelled’ a bit about your manners. I imagine you politely told her to fuck off?” His aunt quirked an eyebrow.

“But politely!” Ben protested.

“That’s my boy.” Mary-Anne laughed, a rich chuckle that rolled across the ears like caramel syrup. “If you like this little girl, why does she need to concern herself with it?”

“Because my dad was enough of a stain on her precious bloodline; we don’t need the worst kind of half-blood mucking it up any more.” By contrast, Ben’s tone had taken on the bitterness of raw winter greens.

“Oh, Benny.” Mary-Anne’s voice was sad, and if they had been talking face to face instead of through a fireplace, he’d bet a galleon she would have smoothed his hair right then. “She can think it all she wants; what matters is what you think. And I’ll be heartfully disappointed in you if you agree with her batjesty.”

“I don’t agree with her—” Ben paused. “But—she does have the capacity to—you know—make things difficult.”

“It seems to be her hobby,” Mary-Anne agreed. “For what it’s worth, I think everything with Cord and Aiden and her batliness is more complicated than that. Aiden didn’t talk about it much, probably because Cord didn’t talk about it much, but I knew my brother.” Ben was quiet as she mused. It wasn’t that she refused to talk about Ben’s dad, but there was an edge of pain there that he didn’t like causing a flare up on. So he didn’t ask near as much as he wanted to. But – if she was sharing …

“Almost nothing that woman ever did was simple, so what went wrong between her and her mother couldn’t have been simple.” Mary-Anne shook her head.

“Almost nothing?” he dared asking.

“Loving you, loving Aiden – that was simple, quick, and completely uncomplicated so far as I ever saw, ever heard.” Mary-Anne sighed. “Mom and Dad got a picture from Aiden, of you and Cord after you were born. We weren’t there, they were in Vegas at the time, and—well—it just didn’t work for us to be there. But she was holding you, in the hospital, fussing a little with your blanket. You could just tell it was love. I don’t even think I ever looked at Desi that way. Maybe because your cousin was a little brat, even straight out of ovarian Bastille. After nearly three days of the worst labor, I’m still surprised I didn’t shove her away and tell Chester he could keep her.” It was softened with a smile, though, so Ben knew she was probably mostly joking, maybe not completely joking, but mostly joking. “I have to wonder what the most holy bat would have said if she ever saw that picture.”

“No idea.” Even the famed Oracles of Delphi would have taken one look at C. Madeline and been like, “Nope, not touching that one with a thirty-nine and a half foot pole.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, I promised I would talk with you about Rowan, which we have, more or less, and I let her know that you—like any Moore ever to walk this earth—come with enough stubborn for a couple herds of donkeys. And the best way to make sure that you two dropped out of school, got Rowan knocked up, and popped out a brat a year for the next decade was to insist that you break up. Or maybe not even wait to drop out before you knocked her up.”

“I can’t see doing that,” Ben admitted.

“Wow, logic overriding hormones – somebody notify the _Enquirer_!” Mary-Anne smirked.

“Peeves, Lipskit, Filch, Mrs. Norris for a few.” Ben ticked off on his fingers. “I wouldn’t risk it if I could get into the Chamber of Secrets and all them couldn’t.”

“Because I’m sure shrines to Salazar Slytherin are just _so_ boner-inducing.” Mary-Anne shrugged.

“You’ve spent too much time around Desi; I’m like scarred for life now.” Ben laughed back. “… Will that be enough?”

“For C. Madeline Corbie? The entire world is not enough for the great-and-wonderful bat. I doubt anything I said to her would be.” Mary-Anne shook her head. “All you can do with people like that is work around them, Benny.”

“Well, I should probably …” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Else Lipskit is gonna think I’m in here going through his private stuffs.”

“I doubt that, but yeah. Take care, Benny.”

“Give my love—or whatever manly thing I’m ‘posed to give—to Uncle Chester. And my thoughts to Mrs. Miller,” Ben said.

“Will do. Oh, Des said she was sending you something—with the way she was laughing when she mentioned it, I’d avoid opening it in front of your instructors. Love you, Benny.” She winked out, never one for long goodbyes.

“I love you too.” He tapped the fireplace stones with his fist before moving the screen back to the approximate equivalent of where it was before he sat down. He stood up and moved to the door.

“You don’t need to bother locking up, Moore,” Lipskit said from one of the chairs by the door. Ben jumped; he’d admit it. “Everything all right?”

“My uncle’s in the hospital—there was an accident with some farm equipment. Broken foot and dozens—according to my aunt—of stitches.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Moore.” Lipskit held his hand out and Ben dropped the keys into his waiting palm.

“Thank you, sir,” Ben told his head of house. Lipskit nodded and headed for the office door as Ben headed off for one of the student lounges, the one where Rowan usually waited for him.

She was sitting in one of the chair groupings, facing the door, her eyes going between the parchment in her hand and her shoes. But she looked up when the door opened and her emerald eyes lit up, a smile stretching across her face; even if it didn’t completely cover the concern, it was definitely honest.

“Is—e-everything all r-right?” Rowan said in odd echo of Lipskit earlier. He told her the same thing that he told Lipskit as he flopped into the chair beside her. “As w-worried as you w-were, I—w-would have t-thought—not t-that it isn’t s-serious b-b-but …”

“Yeah, I thought it would have been worse too. I’m sure it’s pretty bad—but Uncle Chester will be fine. She … also wanted to talk to me about … something else. The accident was serious—but not call-me-out-of-class serious, I think she forgot that I had archaeology class today. Normally the call—or whatever—would have come after class but before dinner.”

“That m-m-makes s-s-sense.” Rowan smiled.

“Yeah—it’s just my mom’s family that seems to avoid that,” Ben muttered, putting an arm around Rowan’s shoulder and dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

* * *

“S-s-sounds l-like my m-mum’s family,” Rowan chuckled. She snuggled against Ben’s side, not so much to encourage jeers of, “Get a room!” but enough. Just enough. “B-but at l-least—I m-mean—I d-don’t think the Corbies were ever—y-you know—D-Dark.” _Which is more than you can say about the Gorloises …_

Rowan glanced at the parchment she was holding – not that it had much about the Gorloises in it, for all that it was technically from a Gorlois, or at least a former Gorlois.

“I wouldn’t be the one to ask if they were.” Ben shrugged. “Even if they are, nobody would’ve told me.”

“They … w-w-wouldn’t?” Rowan asked, tilting her head to get a better look at his face. He was wearing his poker face, which was … not a good sign. Ben never had a problem showing when he was happy. It was only when he wasn’t that he closed off, grew reticent.

She remembered what Ben had said the last time – the only time – he mentioned his grandmother. Something about how the only thing she’d said about Ben, the only request she’d made about him, was that he go to Hogwarts.

That was … well, Rowan knew what that was like, to an extent. To be mostly ignored. But what she didn’t understand is … why? In her case it was obvious …

But there was no way to come straight out and ask, _What’s wrong with your mother’s family?_ , at least not politely, so she didn’t. She tried something else.

“Is—is everything ok?” she asked, trying to find the hand he’d draped over her shoulder. “I m-m-mean—other than your uncle? Is—d-d-did your aunt have m-more bad news?”

“Well, everythin’s fine back in Texas,” Ben shrugged. “It’s jest …”

His accent, she noticed, got thicker – just a little bit thicker – when he was upset. Rowan bit her lip, but said nothing.

She waited.

Ben finally sighed. “C. Madeline’s actin’ in a way that … well, let me put it like this. It makes me want to get her a copy of _Emma_ for Christmas.”

“J-Jane Austen?” Rowan frowned. “W-why?”

“Mostly because of what it says about meddlin’. It’d do her some good, readin’ it, seein’ how despite her good intentions, Emma’s meddlin’ came to bite her in the ass.” Ben frowned. “Not that her intentions are good in this case … an’ not that I’d want to be one of those good intentions, bitin’ the ol’ bat in the ass.”

Rowan giggled and leaned her head on Ben’s shoulder. “What’s she t-t-trying to m-meddle in, then?”

Ben didn’t answer right away. Rowan looked up.

He looked even more stoic than usual – definitely a cause for worry. “Well …”

Rowan blinked. And understood. “… Oh,” she said quietly.

“Rowan—hey, don’t worry,” Ben said, hugging Rowan as well he could without attracting undue attention. “I don’t care what the ol’ bat says. I _don’t_. I—well—”

“N-n-no, it’s okay, Ben,” Rowan replied – and realized, as she said it, that it really was okay.

She looked up at him with a smile – a real smile – one that Ben blinked when he saw. “I know w-w-where I s-s-stand in the old p-pureblood s-s-scheme of th-things. Half-blood d-d-daughter of the w-w-worst k-k-kind of blood t-traitor? There’s n-n-no way s-someone like C. Madeline C-Corbie is going to approve of me.” Rowan shrugged, then frowned. “Honestly, I d-don’t think anyone w-who uses an initial instead of their f-f-first n-name is g-g-going to approve of s-somebody like me.”

Ben threw his head back and laughed. “Oh boy, Rowan—don’t let the ol’ bat hear you say that.”

“M-M-Mum always t-t-told me that p-people like that aren’t w-w-worth giving the t-time of day to,” Rowan shrugged. “And—I th-think—she w-would know better than m-me there.”

Unconsciously, she smoothed the parchment that lay on her lap.

“B-b-besides—what’s the w-w-worst she could d-do?” Rowan went on. “You s-said she b-barely pays attention to y-you. What’s sh-she g-going to do, pay less attention to you?”

“Wouldn’t that be the day,” Ben asked, looking innocently up at the ceiling. “Hell, I don’t even know how she found out about this.” He frowned. “Maybe it was James.”

Rowan wrinkled her nose. “J-James? James w-who?” She hoped … she truly _hoped_ it wasn’t …

“Think of the worst James you know,” Ben drawled, eyebrows waggling.

“N-not James Fawley? But w-why would h-he …?”

“Stick his long-ass nose where it doesn’t belong? Beats me, Rowan. But why do I think it might be him?” Ben shrugged, and Rowan wasn’t sure how she felt about that. On the one hand, the sensation, especially when they were snuggled close together like this, was enough to make butterflies flutter around Rowan’s stomach. On the other hand, she didn’t think that she liked _why_ Ben was shrugging so much. “We’re cousins – an’ he cares about all that pureblood sh—crap.”

Rowan blinked. “I’m s-s-sorry, I c-can’t have heard that right. You and—J-James Fawley …?”

“Cousins,” Ben nodded. “Well, second cousins, technically, if it makes you feel better.”

“You’re r-r-related to J-James _Fawley_?” Rowan repeated.

“Hey, aren’t all the old pureblood families related?” Ben pointed out. “You’re probably related to ol’ Jamesie, too.”

Rowan shuddered. “P-p-perish the thought. You p-p-poor thing!”

“Aw, come on now, you’re related to Queen Vivianne. How much better can that be?”

“Vivianne’s _h-human_ ,” Rowan answered – and even before Ben turned to her with a surprised glance, she wondered why she had said that.

“I m-mean,” Rowan pushed her hair behind her ear, “she’s not as b-b-bad as— _s-some_ of them—you know?” She shrugged. “And there’s … Hogsmeade …” She started to fold a corner of the parchment in her lap, playing with it without even really noticing.

But she didn’t need to say anything else, thank goodness, because Ben was nodding. “True that.” He frowned a little. “Everythin’ okay with you? You keep playin’ with that parchment.”

“What? Oh …” Rowan glanced at the letter and shrugged. “It’s f-from my m-mum. It’s about … a c-certain s-skunk.” Rowan looked up and tried a smile. “She s-s-said she wouldn’t go and hex him right away. Which is g-good!”

“Always good,” Ben agreed. “So what’s the problem?”

“She s-s-said she wants to write to P-Professor Flitwick, s-see w-what he has to s-s-say. But—at l-least she s-said she won’t w-write to D-Dad as well.” Rowan shrugged.

Ben tilted his head to one side. “So … you’re afraid that your mom might hex the skunk if she sees him … but your dad is the one you don’t want to tell?”

“I know, it s-s-sounds m-mental, right?” Rowan felt the flush but couldn’t do much to combat it. “B-b-but—I d-d-don’t know. D-Dad will – worry. Mum … you know, if all of th-this was b-bad enough for hexing, at least I know sh-she’d d-d-do it and—that would be that. But D-D-Dad …”

She shifted. And Ben didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask anything. But somehow his silence invited confidences, even if it was quite clear, at the same time, that there would be no hard feelings if she didn’t want to continue.

Maybe that was why she kept talking.

“He—after l-l-last year—with F-F-Frida and T-Trish—he got upset. He s-said …” Rowan bit her lip. “He s-said it—wasn’t t-t-too late for me to leave Hogwarts … go to M-Muggle university … all that.”

She peeked up at Ben. He looked surprised. “Is that—is what you wanted to do?”

“N-n-no! Not at all! I m-m-mean—sure, F-Frida and T-Trish are horrible—but this is _Hogwarts_! You d-d-don’t leave Hogwarts because of a c-c-couple of b-bullies.” The frown came back. “But—I’m afraid—if D-D-Dad finds out about the s-skunk—at least b-b-before I c-can tell him it’s all b-b-been taken care of—he m-might t-talk about leaving Hogwarts again. Or at least t-t-tell me that I should q-quit the class.”

“There are bullies everywhere. Pervs too,” Ben pointed out. He moved his hand off her shoulder only to rub her back, lightly but rhythmically. “Why should you be punished ‘cause they’re pickin’ on you?”

“That’s what M-Mum w-would say—and what she s-s-said,” Rowan answered. “B-but Dad would s-say it’s n-not about b-b-being punished. It’s about b-b-being s-safe.”

Ben didn’t answer at first. Rowan looked up at him.

“So what do you think, then?” he asked.

Rowan looked again at her letter. She smoothed it over her knee.

“I th-think it’s n-n-not fair that I should f-f-feel like I have t-t-to choose,” she answered. “S-s-so … I’m going t-t-to t-try to s-stay safe without b-being p-punished. There s-should be a m-middle way, I j-just have to be c-c-clever enough t-to f-f-find it.” She looked up with an attempt at a smile. “How’s th-that?”

Ben just laughed and kissed the top of her head. “Spoken like a true Ravenclaw.”

* * *

“For Merlin’s sake, Blake!” Vivianne’s voice came out of the classroom just ahead. It seemed sort of vaguely out of character for her and Blake to be fighting in a classroom without a Silencing Spell on the door – and the door probably locked as well. But Zach supposed it happened, especially if the two of them had gone into the room for some reason other than to fight.

“Quit jerking me around, Vivianne. Why don’t you just drop the frigid ice queen act and admit that your knickers get wet like any other girl’s do?” Blake sneered.

“Of course, Blake—because you’re Blake Skinner! Boys want to be you; girls want to shag you,” Vivianne snorted. “Of _course—_ wha—what? _What are you doing?!_ ”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Blake snickered.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t go directly to Yaxley for that?” Vivianne yelped. “You don’t—you just _don’t_.”

“You won’t go to Yaxley because she’ll just laugh about it.” Blake’s sneer was back. “And because …” He trailed off, so obviously he’d done something to Vivianne. Zach lingered in the hall, torn between intervening and knowing that even Vivianne probably wouldn’t appreciate “being rescued” from whatever Blake had just done. But this sounded like it was getting out of hand, and he was a prefect; intervening was his job.

“You don’t _ever_ put your hands on me without my permission.”

“And if you told Yaxley that I did put my hands on you—you’d be lying. And I’ll tell _everyone_ about it. How long do you think you’d keep your throne after this got into Cornelia’s hands, your highness?” Blake drawled lazily. “ _HEY!_ ” That wasn’t lazy or mean. It was affronted.

“What’s going on here?” Zach asked, throwing the door open; the two Slytherins looked at him. Blake’s eyes were narrowed slightly, his whole visage more or less screwed up into a mask of disdain. His wand was drawn, but still more or less pointed at Vivianne.

Vivianne’s face was less easy to read – but as she’d have made “if you don’t get the fuck out of here, I’ll hit you with something a time turner would be required to fix” easy to get off her face if that was what she was thinking, he wasn’t entirely certain poking his nose into this was the right call, at least not yet.

“Look, Creampuff—”

“That’s _prefect_ Creampuff, Blake,” Vivianne pointed out, her left arm going tighter across her chest as Zach walked further into the room.

“You aren’t needed or wanted here. This was a private conversation between two people that has nothing to do with you.”

Zach knew that telling him that he’d been in the hall long enough to hear this escalate to the point where he’d needed to step in would be a mistake. “Be that as it may,” he said instead, “I am here, and I think you shouldn’t be.”

“And what are you gonna do, huh, Creampuff?” Blake had made his way over to where Zach was standing more or less and was basically in Zach’s face.

“Ten points from Slytherin for threatening a prefect,” Zach said, not backing down in the slightest.

Blake’s fist impacted with the stone wall inches from Zach’s head; the trajectory passed close enough that Zach’s hair stirred with the movement.

“Do you want to make it thirty?” Zach asked quietly.

“Motherfucker!” he snarled before heading out the door into the hall.

“Not your mother,” Zach muttered, running his hand through his hair. “Sorry,” he apologized to Vivianne.

“For what?” Vivianne crossed her arms over her chest, having slid her wand back into … he wasn’t quite sure where she put it. It was just gone by the time he looked at her. “Blake deserved to have the points taken off—I don’t even blame you.”

“But your whole house shouldn’t be punished because he’s an arse.”

“Way the system works. Thanks.” She walked from where she was by the blackboard over to one of the tables, tracing something that was gouged into the surface with a bright green painted fingernail.

“For losing Slytherin ten points?” Zach asked, his eyebrow rising sharply.

“For coming in when you did.” She turned and half collapsed against the edge of the desk. Zach moved across the room and tentatively sat down on the edge of Vivianne’s table.

“Are you okay, Vivianne?”

“No, I’m really not,” Vivianne confessed.

“Did—did Blake do something to you?” Zach asked.

“A couple stupid little spells,” Vivianne dismissed. “That boys think are funny.”

“That do what?” Zach couldn’t hide the concern in his voice.

Vivianne’s eyes ran searchingly over his face, eyes locking on his after a short moment.

“He blew my skirt up—and while I was pushing it back down—he—there’s this little charm—it makes a girl’s …” She actually colored slightly. “A girl’s nipples go hard.”

He’d heard of that from some of the older boys when he was younger. It – in an odd way – probably had led to Juliette’s appointment as an unlikely Hufflepuff prefect as well. She’d blackened the eye of a Slytherin boy who’d used it on a girl – right in time for Professor Lipskit and Professor Sprout to walk around a corner.

Vivianne tossed her head. “He’s just trying to embarrass me. As if that’ll change my mind to what he wants it to be.”

“Merlin, I’m sorry, Vivianne,” Zach said, after his teeth had unclenched. “Do you want to see Madam Pomfrey? Your head of house?”

“I’ll get back at Blake. He was right—Yaxley would just laugh. I know her too well to see her doing anything else. And Pomfrey’s got way too many hex victims in the infirmary to waste both our times.”

“It’s not a waste, he—harassed you,” Zach said.

“But he didn’t hurt me.” She shook her head. “I’ll talk to Sybilla about it—she’ll figure out some way that we can rebut this in-house.”

Zach stuck his fingers comically in his ears and said, “La-la-la.”

“Oh, right, prefect, not supposed to tell you stuff like that.” Vivianne shook her head.

“Especially not when I more agree with you than with the rule I should be enforcing,” Zach told her. “Really, though, I know you’re capable of taking care of this on your own—but you shouldn’t have to.”

* * *

Vivianne blinked twice at Zach. But all she saw in his expression was sincerity. _Of course._ There were people like Vivianne – Blake – Sybilla – Slytherins, in other words – who approached the world with mask firmly in place and a mind concentrated on gaining the next advantage. And then there were people who were brave enough to show the world who they were and say what they felt.

Zach seemed to color faintly, and it wasn’t long before he looked away. Scared of her, probably. Well, plenty of young men were.

_Except bloody Blake. Damn him._

Vivianne swept a hand through her hair. They were through – Blake might not know that yet, but they were done. If he thought that a Gorlois woman would put up with being—harassed, then he needed to think again.

Preferably from the hospital wing, but Vivianne doubted she’d be able to put him in there without causing house-wide fallout …

She pushed that thought to the side. Her revenge would have to be more subtle than that. After a moment, she cleared her throat, trying not to sound awkward. “Thank you.”

Zach looked up. “Thank you? Again?”

She shrugged. “Most people – that I know, anyway – wouldn’t have said that.” She pretended to survey her nails. In the gloomy half-light, the yellow that had been cheerful and bright in the dormitory had turned fluorescent green. “Most people I know are too concerned with the world as it is to devote too much attention to the world as it should be.”

“If wishes were wands, beggars would conjure?” Zach asked.

Vivianne felt the smile rather than willed it. “Precisely.” She tossed her hair. “Though—if it soothes your conscience—if I play my cards right, I should be able to get my revenge on Blake without having to break any school rules.” She smirked at Zach, inviting him to share in the joke. “There are plenty of ways to give someone a comeuppance without resorting to hexes and shouted insults in front of teachers.”

Zach chuckled and shook his head. “Of course there are. And you and Sybilla know all of them.”

“We’ve invented a few, to be honest,” Vivianne answered with a raised eyebrow and a lopsided smirk.

“Not surprised,” Zach replied. He hopped off the table. “Well—if you’re all right—I do have rounds I should be getting to.” He extended a hand to her, almost without thinking, to help her down.

Time seemed to slow as Vivianne stared at it. She could take it – let him be the gentleman – or …

She smiled at him, took his hand, and hopped from the table. She didn’t blink when she felt that familiar spark. But Zach seemed to have a difficult time meeting her eyes, and there was definitely some color in his face that hadn’t been there before.

They parted ways at the door, Zach continuing on his rounds, Vivianne walking to the common room. She went slowly. It wasn’t quite curfew, not yet, and she needed time to think before she risked facing Blake again.

_Now, how am I going to handle this?_

If she’d had witnesses – real witnesses – other than Zach – she might have been able to break it off at once. But that wouldn’t do. Blake would have the entire house, or at least the male half of it, believing she was a frigid ice bitch if she tried. And while that might have been true, it wasn’t the sort of thing she could let people go around _believing_.

No, she needed to come up with a way to break up with Blake and have it be firmly his fault … and revenge, too, would be nice, though if she managed the breakup the right way, she’d have her revenge and then some.

What did she know about Blake? He was full of himself, convinced he was Merlin’s own gift to women. What were the odds that he might have, or be convinced to have, someone waiting in the wings when things with her didn’t work out? Perhaps if Vivianne and Sybilla did some digging …

She was coming up on carefully blank space of wall that was the entrance to the Slytherin common room. “Anaconda,” she muttered, and a portion of the wall slid away, letting her in.

The minute she came in, she was greeted by male laughter.

But not – Vivianne realized after she went stiff – at her. No, while there were boys laughing, they weren’t even looking at her. There was a knot of sixth- and seventh-year boys to her left, clustered around a magazine of some kind, and that was what they were laughing at.

Blake was among them. His back was to the door. And …

He was cradling his hand …

Vivianne felt her eyes grow wide, and beat a quick – but not too quick – retreat to the safety of the girls’ dormitory to let the thought percolate.

The dorm was empty – well, it was early for anyone to be turning in. Vivianne hopped onto her bed, grabbed the novel from her bedside table for verisimilitude, opened up, let her eyes rest on the page, and thought.

Blake was cradling his hand. The hand he’d punched into a wall.

What had he been _thinking_ , punching that close to Zach? If he hit Zach, he’d have lost points, ended up in detention – maybe even been kicked off the Quidditch team. His reputation would have blown up on him, too; Vivianne would have been fully justified in extricating herself from an idiot and a loose cannon.

And what happened if he didn’t hit Zach? He hit a bloody _wall_. That had to hurt. He could have even broken a finger or two. The walls were made of bloody stone.

A slow, feline smile came across Vivianne’s face.

Blake was an idiot and a loose cannon. And he was getting angry.

If she simply let him get angrier … he’d dig his own grave. All Vivianne would have to do would be to wait for the end of the funeral to drop her rose and shovel the dirt on top of him.

She wouldn’t have to do _anything_.

_There,_ she thought, _see, Zach? I can have my revenge without breaking any rules. You haven’t done anything wrong._

_… Well._

_At least—_ I _won’t be breaking any school rules._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to synnesth, for leaving us kudos!


	26. Chapter 25: I Am ... I Said

**Chapter 25: I Am … I Said**

It was cold, wet, miserable, and his leg ached abominably. The perfect day to go hunting. But hell if he was going to be Rove, who couldn’t so much as stick a toe outside even with those god awful yellow wellies that were really doing a number on Leo’s eyes – and tongue. As in his tongue hurt from biting it so damned much, and he was going blind looking at them.

He grabbed a scarf at random off the cloak tree in his quarters and had it half wound around his neck before he realized it was the cheerful tartan number McGonagall had gifted him with last Christmas. And the fact that McGonagall had knitted it for him herself was probably the only reason he’d kept it. _Oh well, it’s a scarf,_ he thought. And it wasn’t like it was that much different than any of the others on the tree, all in shades of Gryffindor scarlet, gold, charcoal gray or some combination of the three.

_Once you get to a certain age,_ Lipskit thought, _all anyone ever buys you is books, socks, and scarves. And sadly, that day is long before the age at which that is all you actually want._ He paused for a moment, while he was still alone, and shook his bad leg as if that would do something about the ache in it. Then he grabbed up his cane and slid it into miniature wellie that kept it from sinking into the mud. It, thankfully, was a sensible dark gray, and the only hint of whimsy about it was the fact that it was a miniature boot that went on the end of his cane. He locked the door to his quarters and headed down the hall toward the doors leading out into the courtyard.

He passed Nearly Headless Nick and the Fat Friar, who seemed to be having a spirited discussion, a gaggle of second years who were looking vaguely guilty as he passed, and Moore holding up a wall while talking with Rowan. He caught a glimpse of a rather trippy-looking pink out of the corner of his eye and stretched his legs so he could get out in the rain before the owner of those robes caught up with him.

Even the freezing cold gunk gushing forth from the sky, the consistency of one of those Muggle slush drinks, was more welcome than Rove would be. He heard the door open behind him, but it shut again much too quickly for anyone to be following him. Especially when Rove practically conjured trumpets to announce him when he came into the room. Of all the faults one could attribute to Maxwell Rove, low self-esteem was not one of them.

Leo looked longingly at the smoke emanating from Hagrid’s chimney. Then he shook himself; he had things to do, and slush, knee, and general lethargy from too many days cooped up in the castle were not going to stop him. He peeled off and entered the forest at one of the nearly invisible paths that he knew the … whatever-it-was that he was stalking liked to use.

The day had been gloomy enough before he hit the tree line, but it was instantly twilight once he was in the trees. The ground wanted to make rude noises, sticking to him, trying to suck the rubber boots straight off his feet. Still, he was able to make as good a time as any two-legged thing that wasn’t particularly welcome in these woods would have been.

It was beautiful. People like Rove who preferred buildings – with mirrors and fawning audiences – might have missed the quiet beauty. The hundreds of shades of brown, green, gray, with the faintest pokes of autumn gold and burnt orange still lingering. The way the light – and slush – fell down between the tree limbs. The smell of pine, fallen leaves, and under it just a trace of decay. That tree over there – covered now in mushroom spores – giving itself back to the forest.

Leo noticed all of this while orienting himself, looking for the subtle trail markers he’d left the last time he’d come searching. There was the rock that looked like a perched eagle – and there was the dry stream bed. He clambered down the sides of the bank onto the rocks. He ducked under a tree fallen like a bridge and moved silently along. Only the sound of rain on his overcoat and hat and the occasional rustle of a squirrel darting on the branches above kept him company as he searched.

He was half-convinced he’d find nothing in his searching and stalking, but then he saw something up ahead.

It was sheltered on three sides by rocks, and that was probably the only reason it was hadn’t washed away. The splash of liquid—a strange kind of swampy mud—well, if it hadn’t been mud, he’d have thought blood or some type, like something had been injured, thrown into the rocks. But it was mud.

His eyes tracked up the side of the bank, the leaves and pine needles disturbed, as if something had been chased right through here – and something had been knocked into the rock.

He summoned a vial, and using the edge of a knife, he scooped up as much of the mud as he could manage. It burbled in the vial, like fetid gasses escaping from a swamp, but settled as he slid the vial into his coat pocket, wrapped in cotton to keep it from breaking.

Following the disturbed detritus, he walked up out of the stream bank and into the forest, at the end of two long furrows, as if something the size of a – tiger, maybe? – had attempted to stop quickly and had slid for a ways, was a Knarl. It blinked, disoriented, at Lipskit before chittering softly. Its side, he noticed, was gored by claws.

He stunned the poor creature before it could get to its feet, scooping it up, noticing the mud surrounding the claw marks. Leo sighed and tucked the Knarl into his other overcoat pocket, heading back for Hagrid’s. He wanted to examine the Knarl before he cleaned and bandaged its wounds, and that was better done where he could see them.

While he walked, he thought. Assuming that whatever had left the mud behind was the same thing that had attacked the Knarl – a not-completely-outside pitch given the mud on the Knarl and the rock – he at least had an idea about the size of the thing he was chasing.

Too bad Knarls couldn’t talk.

* * *

In Scotland, the weather was gray, slushy, and utterly miserable, as it had been for nearly two bloody weeks. In London, the day was gray and chilly, but there was nary a drop of precipitation in sight. (This was not reflected in the windows in the Ministry offices, which instead showed clear blue skies and merrily waving palm trees.) In Cornwall …

Elaine opened the _Daily Prophet_ to where the weather section should have been and found herself staring at a picture of the Chudley Cannons indulging in what would probably be their only victory lap of the season. _Are you bloody kidding me?_ “Who’s got the weather section of the _Prophet_?” she called.

“Not me!”

“I thought Hudnall had it last?”

“I did, but I gave it to Cresswell.”

“I got it!” That was Trainee Cresswell, sprinting with the paper in hand. “Here you go. D’you mind if I have it back when you’re done, though?”

“No problem. Thanks, Cresswell.” Elaine shot him a tight smile before flipping the paper open, finger running down the columns as she searched for the weather report for … Newquay would be close enough.

“What do you need the weather for?” asked Artemis Kendrick, Elaine’s usual partner in investigations, standing up and looking over the cubical wall. “I thought the boss said we were stationed here for the day.”

“Going to Cornwall for lunch,” Elaine replied. She glanced at her watch. “In about … ten minutes. Need to know whether I should bring my wellies or if just a cloak will do the trick.”

Artemis blinked. “Cornwall?”

An Auror learned a lot about her partners. For every ten minutes of firefights and dangerous missions, there were hours of stakeouts, surveillance operations, and shooting the breeze. Elaine could tell anyone all about Artemis’s nieces and nephews, her weekly kitchen disasters, and the young man from the floor below her flat who was, “quite fit and very easy on the eyes, until he opens his bloody mouth. _Why_ do the cute ones have to be jerks, Elaine?”

Apparently Artemis could return the favor. “Your people are in Cornwall, aren’t they?”

“A few,” Elaine answered, pretending she was concentrating on the paper.

“You meeting with one of them?” Artemis pressed.

Elaine bit her lip. “My mother.”

“Well, that should be nice.”

Elaine almost jumped—she’d forgotten that Trainee Cresswell would still be standing there, waiting for the paper. He smiled pleasantly enough at her. She tried to smile back.

“Oooh, boy,” Artemis whistled. “Shall I take this, Elaine?”

“Go ahead,” Elaine muttered, trying to get back to the paper.

“Right. Well, here’s the thing, Cresswell. Elaine has a somewhat … fraught relationship with her mother. You haven’t seen her since … Merlin, when was the last time you saw her?”

“Two weeks after my divorce was finalized.”

“You’re _divorced_?” Trainee Cresswell gasped.

Elaine looked up again. “Er …” She pointed to the most recent picture of Rowan pinned up on her cubicle wall; she’d taken it at King’s Cross when Rowan got back last summer. In it she was flanked by her friends Zach and Jon and laughing. Looking at it, no one would have guessed what those Slytherin bitches had done to her a couple weeks prior.

And that was just _one_ of the pictures of Rowan she had pinned to the walls and decorating the desk.

“Where do you think my kid came from?” Elaine asked.

“Well … I mean …” Trainee Cresswell looked like he was hoping the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes would arrange for an accident and/or catastrophe that would conveniently take out the floor beneath his feet. “I didn’t think that through.”

“It’s all right,” Elaine answered. “Now, if I could just find the bloody weather report …”

“Her marriage was a war casualty,” Artemis added _sotto voce_ to Trainee Cresswell.

And Elaine couldn’t be upset. Because if there was one rule about getting on in the Auror Office – especially with those few who had been around before the Ministry fell in ‘97 and those who had been old enough to fight – it was this:

Never ask about war casualties.

Finally, she found the report she was looking for – of _course_ it would be sunny and unseasonably warm in Cornwall – and handed the paper back to Cresswell, who seemed glad to escape.

She flopped into her seat and checked her watch. She had seven minutes before she had to leave. Somehow the idea of setting out early did not appeal.

Instead, she took a much-perused letter from the pocket of her robes and smoothed it out on her desk.

The letter was short, simple, and to the point.

_Elaine,_

_I have heard some troubling rumors. I think it wise that we meet and discuss them in person. I will be dining at home on Thursday, November 12, and your sister will be out. Please join me for lunch at one o’clock._

_Yours,_

_Mother_

_PS: This concerns Rowan._

Elaine ran a hand through her hair. _Bloody hell._ Even after all these years, Igraine knew what would get her to come running. Mentioning Rowan’s name – it was like a bloody dog whistle. It was pathetic.

_Except …_

Elaine took a deep breath, folded the letter back up again, and shoved it in her pocket. She leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes.

“Auror O’Blake?”

Elaine let her fingers fall open.

A short, tubby wizard in a bottle-green suit and violently purple robes thrown over them stood before her desk. He looked down at her with an expression that could only be called distaste. He was young, much younger than Elaine, but there were already harassment lines setting around his eyes and brow wrinkles forming from a perpetually put-upon expression.

She didn’t even have to take in the ink-stained fingers to know the type at fifty paces. Mid-level bureaucrat and parchment-pusher.

“That would be me,” she answered, trying not to sound like her teeth were grinding. “Can I help you?”

The wizard cleared his throat and took a sheaf of parchment from his robes. “There is a bit of a problem with your use-of-force report from the incident that occurred on October the thirty-first. I was filing the appropriate copy in the permanent records in the Minister’s office when I noticed that question fifty-six had not been answered—”

“Wait. Hold on. Back up. Who are you, where are you from, and what do you want?” Elaine asked.

The wizard’s nose wrinkled. “Er—right. My name is Gorgias Hume, third level clerk, Minister for Magic’s office. I’m in charge of filing the use-of-force reports. As I’m sure you know, the Minister retains a permanent record of all uses of force—”

“I know,” Elaine interrupted. She glanced at her watch. “Look, I have an appointment I need to be leaving for – is there any way we can handle this after I get back from lunch?”

“I’m afraid not,” Hume replied. “You see, since the incident was nearly two weeks ago, it is past time that the report was filed. Unfortunately—”

“We’re given three working days to get those reports in. I got mine in on time. If _you’re_ behind in the filing, I fail to see how that’s _my_ problem.” Elaine raised an eyebrow. “And like I said, I have an appointment. This can’t possibly wait until after lunch?”

“No,” Hume repeated. “Now, as I was saying—”

Elaine rolled her eyes. “Give me the bloody report and let me answer question fifty-six, then.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” He took another sheaf of parchment from his robes. “Because of Protocol 34.8, it is essential that all three filed reports be filled out at the same time and be filled out identically. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to do it again. And I’ll need it by the end of business today.”

Elaine’s jaw fell. “You’re bloody kidding. It’s a forty-five page report. In triplicate!”

“I most certainly am not. You are aware, I am sure, that Minister Shacklebolt is quite serious about ushering in a new age of transparency and tolerance here at the Ministry—”

“First, it’s been a decade, so I’m not sure we’re ushering in a ‘new’ anything anymore. Second, if I know Kingsley as well as I think I do, burying Ministry officials in pointless paperwork was not what he had in mind.”

Hume’s jaw had fallen – probably because she called the Minister by his first name. Well, she and Kingsley had been fighting Death Eaters together when this fellow was still collecting Chocolate Frog Cards. After something like that, one didn’t just stop being on a first-name basis.

“N-nonetheless,” Hume stammered, “the—the report must be done—and as I need it by—”

Elaine rolled her eyes and stood up. “Look, son – I’m sorry about missing a question, but poor planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part. Put the reports on the desk, and I’ll get them done when I get them done.”

“Auror O’Blake—”

“ _Or_ ,” she raised an eyebrow at him, “I can fill in question fifty-six now, and you can go back to your filing, and we can forget this conversation ever happened.” She looked at her watch again. “You’ve got thirty seconds to make a decision, Mr. Hume, because I’m already running late.”

“Auror O’Blake!”

That was when Hume did something incredibly stupid. He pulled out his wand.

“I have the full backing of the Minister behind me!” he demanded. “You—you will get this report filled out. Correctly, this time! Or—”

“Or what?” Elaine asked, shaking her head and trying to push past the official.

“Or—stop! _Impedimenta_!”

The Auror who couldn’t have a Shield Charm up before the first syllable of her adversary’s spell was off his tongue was the Auror who got sent home in a pine box after very few missions. Hume’s spell collided with Elaine’s Shield, a bright light flashing and leaving purple spots dancing before Elaine’s eyes.

That was when Elaine lost her temper.

“ _You_ , sir, are an unmitigated ass!” She lifted her wand and pointed it at him. “ _So bloody be one_!”

Transfiguration had always been one of Elaine’s talents.

Sometimes she regretted that.

Hume bleated in terror—then started braying. His ears sprouted up, turning brown and velvety. He collapsed to all fours, his arms lengthening as short, bristly brown hairs covered them.

It took only a moment for one ass to be replaced with another.

Then the ass – seeing it was, in fact, a donkey in a government office – panicked and ran off, and Elaine realized this might not have been the best idea.

“Elaine!” Artemis yelped as the donkey ran past her desk.

Swearing under her breath, Elaine took off running after the ass. Artemis took off running after Elaine. A few more Aurors joined the chase.

They ran past the Head Auror’s door, which opened as the stampede ran past. “What the bloody hell is going on?” Elaine heard her boss cry out as he started running with them.

“Elaine turned a bureaucrat into a donkey!”

“ _Again_? Oh for—it wasn’t my brother-in-law this time, was it?”

“No, not this time!” Artemis shouted back.

“Thank Merlin.”

As she ran after the donkey, shouting spells to try to turn the damn thing back or slow it down, one thought managed to streak across Elaine’s mind.

_Guess I’ll be a bit late for lunch with Mother …_

* * *

Hagrid’s cottage was as warm and welcoming as ever. He didn’t even look in askance as Leo stumped to the door with an overcoat containing a vial of half-sentient mud and an injured Knarl. The little hedgehog-like creature was still out from Leo’s stunning spell but probably due to wake soon, so Leo didn’t do a whole lot of explaining first – just asked for somewhere well-lit and the first aid kit.

The claw marks on the Knarl were fairly wide, but not overly deep. Whatever had made them seemed to have aimed this swat to _hurt_ , not to kill. That … was troublesome.

In Leo’s experience, most creatures – of magical nature or not – did not aim for cruelty. Cats did, sometimes, mostly out of boredom. But those were domesticated cats, bored house cats usually. For feral or wild cats, hunting something required time and energy.

So whatever had hurt this Knarl had the time and energy to spare, and it was … bigger than he’d expected. No one who had spent as much time around apex predators and those species marked XXXXX by the Ministry as Leo had walked away from that without some idea of how such predators worked and how they thought. Unless it was faced with a long, prey-light, barren season, something the size of a tiger wouldn’t go chasing something the size of a hedgehog. Not even for fun.

… Maybe _especially_ not for fun …

The wound cleaned and claw marks examined, he started winding a bandage around the body of the Knarl, who was stirring. Hopefully it wouldn’t give Leo a snout full of quills for his trouble. It made a soft squalling noise as it slipped back into consciousness, squeaking anxiously as it tried to orient itself. The Knarl blinked and peered around.

“So what’re yeh gonna call it?” Hagrid asked as Leo set the little fellow on the table.

“Call what?” Leo replied distractedly and intelligibly as he let the Knarl smell his fingers.

“Call the Knarl, o’course.” Hagrid said, scratching the ears of his dog. “Seems yeh’ve made a friend.”

“It’s not a pet.” Leo’s brows drew in and down as the Knarl rubbed itself against Leo’s palm after having done its best to check out the bandages around its midsection.

“So yeh say, but yeh do know he’s gonna have to be cared fer.”

“Right—at least until the wound heals,” Leo acknowledged.

“So yeh need to name him _somethin’_.”

“Because I have so many hedgehogs in my care that I need to keep track of them all with a name.” Leo thumped down into the chair to his left, the Knarl toddling over in his direction; it wasn’t hard to see that the poor thing was terrified. He picked it up as it started to whimper and ran his hand over the quills to try and reassure the Knarl. The whimpering quieted and Leo caught the edge of Hagrid’s smile as he turned and reached for the firewhisky. He held up the bottle in inquiry, and Leo nodded, taking the tumbler handed to him.

The Knarl stretched its neck out curiously, sniffing at the drink before sneezing and shaking his head. Leo laughed a little. He lowered his left hand – the one holding the Knarl – to his knees, where the creature climbed off his palm onto his lap and balled up for all the world like a small, spiny house cat. It chittered before closing its eyes and apparently going to sleep.

To ignore the smirk that Hagrid was giving him, he floated the towels he had used to clean the wounds on the Knarl over to him, paying special attention to the mud mixed in with the blood. It bore out his initial guess of “swampy,” thinner than normal mud, about the consistency of blood, and distinctly shot through with algae. It smelled like a swamp too.

He took the vial out of his pocket and swirled it around in the light. Unlike a normal liquid that would have just spiraled around in the vial, this … moved, independently of the movement of the vial, creeping up the sides, probing at the cork.

“What’s this?” Hagrid asked.

“I don’t know,” Leo admitted. “I found it near the Knarl—and some tracks of a sort. I think it came from this thing I’ve been tracking.”

“There’s no swamps near here,” the shaggy man said, looking as intently at the vial as Leo was.

“None so close that this would have survived being brought here by something,” Leo agreed, taking a drink of firewhisky and enjoying the burn as it went down. “Which says to me that this is somehow—part of this creature? I’ve never heard of something that literally had mud for blood—only figuratively, by arseholes describing Muggle-borns.”

Hagrid snorted and took a long drink.

“I’ll have to do some research—we have no idea what might have been in those ruins.” Leo sighed.

“Summat botherin’ yeh, Leo?” Hagrid asked.

“Yep,” Leo said. “We don’t have any idea about those ruins. I would swear to you—and I’m certain you’d swear to me—that those ruins … Just. Were. Not. There five years ago.” Leo’s hand fell to stroking the Knarl on his lap as he took a long drink of firewhisky and stared at the vial on the table. “We don’t know _anything_ about them, Hagrid. What defenses were there, what protections might be in place. We just don’t know. I tried to tell Rove that we needed to know before we went risking kids in there.”

“But …” Hagrid trailed off, scratching at his beard.

“Exactly.” They were both thinking the same thing, even if Hagrid was too kind to say it: the thought of working with the Ministry, of having a legacy all his own, was too much for Rove. He was near desperate to prove himself as something other than a piss-poor successor to McGonagall. He, of course, couldn’t do this by being a _good_ headmaster and building that legacy – or maybe that was just Lipskit’s take on the subject, which was hardly neutral.

“Tha’s not all, is it?” Hagrid rumbled a moment later.

“Admittedly? No.”

“So what is it?” Hagrid topped off Leo’s glass, and Leo paused for a moment, holding it up to the light.

“I’m guessing you know about Rowan?” Leo lulled his head back and petted the Knarl in his lap. He heard Hagrid shift.

“Summat about it,” Hagrid finally acknowledged. “Mostly just Elaine askin’ if I could keep an eye out for Rowan when I could.”

“Well, the whole story—well, doesn’t need to be known by anyone, except maybe Rowan.” Leo sighed. “But, well, I can’t—through methods fair or foul—find anything out about Julien Bellerose. We have the dossier on him from the Ministry, but other than that, the man might not even exist for all that anyone knows about him.”

“Funny you should mention him,” Hagrid rumbled. “I saw him the other day—in the Hog’s Head with—well, he was takin’ some pains to keep from really being seen—but it sounded like Victor Yaxley.”

Leo fought to keep from sitting bolt upright, though he couldn’t entirely keep his grasp from tightening around his glass. “Yaxley, you say? What would he be doing in the Hog’s Head?”

“Dunno—they ‘ad enough charms laid around their table that they coulda been planning to take over the world or planning a Muggle movie marathon and I wouldn’a known. Wouldn’a even known ‘twas Victor, ‘cept I recognized ‘is voice as ‘e was leavin’.”

“Well, shit.” Leo sighed. “That doesn’t sound good. Did you mention it to anyone?”

“Just Elaine, she—well—she likes to know whenever ‘er relatives show up in Hogsmeade.” Hagrid said. “Should I ‘ave? Like Harry?”

“Honestly, Hagrid? Fuck if I know.” The Knarl butted its head up into Leo’s palm and Leo absently fell to petting it again.

“Yeh really should give him a name,” Hagrid said. Leo picked up the sleepy creature and looked at him.

“Dragon.”

* * *

Cornwall was having a St. Martin’s summer.

Igraine sat in the gardens, determined to enjoy it as long as it lasted. She took a deep breath, eyes closed, surrendering herself to experience. The warmth of the sun. The smell of the salt. The sound, muffled, of the waves crashing onto the rocks below.

And then she opened them, because there was work to be done.

Where _was_ Elaine?

It was past two. Elaine had said she would come. It had been a hastily scribbled note, barely a line, but it had been in Elaine’s hand. Even after all these years, Igraine knew it. Even if it had been so long – decades – since Igraine had anything like regular correspondence with her elder daughter …

She closed her eyes and shook her head. Elaine would come. Her daughter did not break her word lightly, little as she might like to give it. If she was delayed, well, she was an Auror. Things came up. How many times had Perseus missed an appointment, only to show up an hour or two late, his cloak scorched and torn, apologizing and apologizing?

Igraine told herself not to worry. It had been so long since she had worried. Once she had always worried, as much as she’d worried about Perseus and more. Then she had closed her heart to that feeling. But it took very little to open her heart again. She’d learned that the hard way, more than once.

Igraine took a deep breath and closed her eyes again. She needed to stop letting her mind run around in these frustrating circles.

She opened them and looked around the gardens. Only a few of the bushes still had leaves on them, red and gold and defiant. They’d had two killing frosts since the end of September, but these leaves would hold on to the last.

And the rest? The beds were empty and turned over for the winter. The grass was smoothed under their feet. Brown, green, and more brown.

Hopefully Elaine would be … amenable to eating here, speaking out here. They’d had happy times in the gardens. With luck Elaine would see that, remember that.

If Igraine leaned back, she could remember …

_“Dad! Watch this!”_

_Elaine came out of the castle at a run, thirteen and gangly, her brand-new broomstick in hand. She hopped on in mid-run and kicked off the ground. Higher she climbed, higher …_

_She rolled to the side, hanging on to the broom with one hand and—her FOOT?! “Starfish and stick, Dad!”_

_Igraine wanted to shout—wanted to tell her daughter to_ get back on that broom _, what was she_ thinking _, she was going to fall and then—_

_But Perseus was laughing, clapping. The warm summer sun caught the blond in his hair, the flash of his smile. “Ha! That’s my girl! Starfish and stick! But I thought you wanted to go for Chaser?”_

_“Sure I do; this just seemed like fun!” And Elaine twisted, and suddenly she was back on the broom, right way up, and Igraine could breathe again. “Get your broom, Dad; we’ll toss the Quaffle around!”_

_“Well … if you_ insist _…”_

_He turned to Josie, hanging back and holding Igraine’s hand, eight years old and with eyes wide as saucers. “What do you say, Josie? You want me to get your broom too?”_

_Josie watched as Elaine flew from one side of the gardens to the other, doing barrel rolls and waiting until the absolute last second to make a turn. “I don’t think I want to fly like that, Daddy …”_

_“What, like your sister the daredevil? Would I ask you to do that?” He crouched down to her level and tapped her nose. “How’s this: it’ll be you and me against Elaine. Let’s put her through her paces.”_

_Josie giggled. “Okay, Daddy.”_

_Then Perseus straightened, a laughing light in his hazel eyes. The sun caught the flecks of gold and made them glow. “And what about you, Igraine? Care to join us?”_

_“I think I’ll keep both feet on the ground and make sure you lot don’t kill yourselves,” Igraine said lightly._

_“As always.” Perseus leaned in for a kiss. It would just be a quick one; she knew that. Any more and Elaine would start making retching noises and Josie would join in. “That’s my girl. Making sure the rest of us stay alive.”_

_The kiss was short as Igraine knew it would be, but Perseus’s lips tasted of sunlight, and of gold—_

She came to herself with a start and a gasp. That—that had almost felt _real_. As if for a minute she had traveled back, back before it had all gone wrong, before Josie got pregnant and Elaine got married and Perseus … died …

Igraine put a hand to her head and shook it. And then she realized what had brought her back to the present.

Her wand had buzzed – the wards on the house had been set off. Elaine must have arrived.

_About time._ Igraine tapped her wand against her throat. “ _Sonorus_. I’m in the gardens.”

She tapped it again. “ _Quietus_.”

Igraine stood. She waved her wand, and one of the small chairside tables floated over. A few more wand waves and it was large enough for a table for two to eat al fresco. Finally, she floated over two of the chairs.

She completed her preparations just as she heard feet crunch on the gravel path behind her. “There you are,” Igraine said, starting to turn around. “You’ve certainly taken—”

She made it all the way around.

She gasped.

“ _You_!”


	27. Chapter 26: Circle of Life

**Chapter 26: Circle of Life**

“Ok!” Candice said, flopping onto the sofa between Rowan and Quill. There wasn’t initially enough room, but when Candice started flopping, room magically appeared. Her laptop was in her hands and a grin was on her face. “I think I know where I’ve been going wrong!”

“Oh?” Jon asked, perking up from where he’d been perched on the floor, practicing a Conjuration spell.

“Oh _God_ ,” Quill muttered, head dropping into his hands.

“Shut it.” Candice elbowed him as she turned the laptop over and started to attack the back of it with her screwdriver. Rowan itched to take it out of her hands and do it more carefully, but if she was being honest with herself, if Candice’s laptop got away with only a few scratches to the case, it would be a very lucky laptop indeed. “Anyway! As I was saying—”

“Candice,” Blair interrupted, “is your homework done?”

Candice froze. Then her shoulders slumped. “ _Blair_.”

“She’s not going to let you pull an all-nighter, Candice,” Aubrey said from where he was sprawled on his own couch, one leg tossed over the back of it and his History of Magic notes floating a foot or so above his face. “Get your homework done, and then we can talk about how your laptop is going to start working.”

“But—I’m _so close_!” Candice leaned forward, head in her hands. “I’m so close I can taste it! Come on, Blair, where we would we be now if Einstein’s mom had interrupted him ten minutes before he figured out that E=MC 2 and asked him if his homework was done?”

“Relatively speaking?” Quill quipped, which won him a giggle from Rowan and another elbow from Candice.

“Candice,” Blair said, very slowly, probably because she wasn’t sure who Einstein was, what E was, why it was equal to MC2, or why any of that mattered, “be—be that as it may, I think you should—”

 She was cut off by someone dashing through the tower and calling, “Rowan! Hey, has anyone seen Rowan?”

_Huh?_ Rowan glanced at her friends, but they looked just as confused as she felt.

“I’m h-here!” Rowan called out. She put her books on the table, stood up, and tried to pick her way around Jon, Jon’s notes, Blair, and Blair’s notes. “What’s—what d-d-do you need?”

“ _There_ you are!” It was Noelle, standing at the entry to their little study room. “Professor Flitwick’s here—he wants to see you?”

Rowan blinked. _See_ me _?_ For some reason—she couldn’t be sure why—she looked at her watch. It was past eight o’clock – what could he possibly …

Rowan found herself nodding and hurrying into the common room proper, even as her heart began to pound in her ears.

She jogged to the front of the room, to the door where Professor Flitwick was standing – not that he was easy to see, being as he was one of the few adults in existence shorter than Rowan. The little professor seemed relieved when he saw her. “Rowan! Ah, there you are. If you would come with me? Your mother—”

“M-my m-m-m-mum?” Rowan gasped, and suddenly her palms were sweating and her heart was pounding and it was very difficult to breathe—

Professor Flitwick held up a hand. “She needs to speak with you. She’s—well—she fire talked my office. It’s—she didn’t tell me what it was about, exactly, but it’s quite urgent.”

Rowan didn’t know what to say next. She swallowed. “Urgent? B-b-but—she’s there? Sh-she’s—ok?”

“As far as I can tell,” Professor Flitwick said, very gently.

“O-okay.” Rowan patted herself down. She had her wand—that was in the wide front pocket of her hoodie—but she didn’t have her bag and she was out of uniform—but that wouldn’t matter, would it? Her mother wouldn’t care, and Professor Flitwick wasn’t saying anything—

“Can we come too, Professor?” asked a voice behind Rowan—Jon.

She turned around. Her friends were all standing there, Candice still holding her laptop, Aubrey trying to bat the notes away from his face. Rowan’s jaw fell. And then she wondered why she was surprised.

“I think Rowan’s mother will want to talk to her in private,” Professor Flitwick answered, “but as it’s not near curfew for students in your years yet, I don’t see any reason why you can’t come along and wait outside.” He smiled, or tried to. “But I think we’d best get going. Rowan?”

Rowan nodded without a word, and the seven of them left the common room and started down the long, winding staircase.

Professor Flitwick’s office was on the third floor, and the walk seemed to take forever – especially after Jon tapped her elbow, came close to her ear, and whispered, “I’m going to get Ben, all right?” Rowan simply nodded, and Jon broke away from the group at the next corridor, heading toward Gryffindor Tower.

With every step, Rowan kept reminding herself, _Mum’s okay. Mum’s okay. Mum’s okay._

But there were so many people beside her mother—and if her mother was fire-talking her—if it couldn’t be sent over in a note—

Finally, they arrived at Professor Flitwick’s office. That was where Rowan got her second and third shocks of the evening.

Professor Yaxley was standing in the corridor just outside the door, frowning and tapping her foot.

And with her was— _Vivianne_?

She looked perfect, as always. Denim pencil skirt, green jumper that was probably cashmere, makeup done, not a hair out of place. Rowan was more aware than ever of her sweatshirt and fleece trousers, her hair mussed after a day of pushing it back, the makeup she’d already scrubbed away.

Vivianne’s eyes widened when she saw Rowan; Professor Yaxley’s nostrils flared. “ _Her_?”

“Tearose,” Professor Flitwick replied, very patiently, all things considered, “surely you must have seen this coming. Do you think that E—Ms. O’Blake is going to want to speak to her niece but not her daughter?”

“I … suppose.” Still, Professor Yaxley glared at Rowan.

“Anyway, we shouldn’t keep her waiting.” There was just a bare hint of reproof in his tone. He opened the door to his office. “Rowan, Vivianne—your—Ms. O’Blake is waiting for you. We’ll wait out here and let you have some privacy.”

Rowan and Vivianne’s eyes met for a fraction of a second. Then Vivianne tossed her hair, rolled her shoulders back, and marched into the office. Rowan could do nothing but follow.

Professor Flitwick closed the door behind them.

Normally, Professor Flitwick’s office was bright and sunny, with high ceilings and huge windows that faced the south. For Christmas, he put fairy lights up in the highest areas, so there was soft light coming from everywhere, and he didn’t take them down again until spring came. But he must not have gotten to it yet. Tonight, there was no light other than the flickering of the fire and the soft glow of the candles and lamps studded around the room. The huge black maw of the ceiling seemed to swallow the light whole.

There were two chairs placed by the fireplace. Trying not to shiver, Rowan followed Vivianne and took a seat.

Her mother’s head was in the flickering flames. There were faint stress lines between her brows, and her hair was tousled and messier than usual. “M-Mum?” Rowan asked. “What—w-what’s wrong?”

Elaine didn’t answer at once. “Hello, sweet,” she said instead. The smile, at least, was real – well, real for a given value of real. She looked up at Vivianne. “And—Vivianne. Merlin. You probably get this a lot—but you are your mother all over again.”

Was it Rowan’s imagination, or did Vivianne wrinkle her nose? But why would she do that? Nobody ever said that the Gorlois women weren’t attractive – and Rowan had seen photographs of Vivianne’s mother from when she was young, and _she_ certainly was attractive.

“Thank you,” Vivianne said quietly. Then, not wasting any more time, “What’s going on?”

Elaine took a deep breath. Her gaze volleyed from Vivianne to Rowan and, almost reluctantly, back again. “Girls … I’m afraid I have some bad news. This afternoon, your Grandmother Gorlois … passed away.”

Rowan gasped. “Oh, n-no! Are—are y-you okay, M-Mum?”

Her mother didn’t answer. Barely gave her a glance. She was watching Vivianne.

Rowan glanced at Vivianne, too.

Vivianne was blinking – very slowly. The color had drained from her face. Her fingers held the sides of the seat of her chair in a death grip.

If Vivianne had been anyone else – not even one of her friends, but almost anyone else – Rowan would have laid a hand on her shoulder and asked if she was all right.

Her hand even came up. But she didn’t have time to ask anything of Vivianne.

“W-what?” Vivianne gasped. Her voice sounded as if it had been dragged from a long way off.

“Oh, Vivianne,” Elaine sighed.

“ _How_?” Vivianne demanded. “She—nobody said—Mother didn’t—” Vivianne brought a hand up to her head. Rowan thought it was shaking. “What do you mean, she’s _dead_?”

“The Healers are saying it was a heart attack,” Elaine replied. Something in the way she said it made Rowan’s brows furrow. “Vivianne, honey, do you need a minute?”

Vivianne stared at Elaine as if the vision in the fireplace had sprouted a second head. “What? No, I don’t need a _minute_. What the—what is going on? Where’s Mother?”

Elaine took a deep breath and seemed to have to stop herself from rolling her eyes. “Your mother … was a bit upset. The Healers thought it best we give her something to calm her down. She’s sleeping it off now, so I’m taking care of this part.”

“Of _course_ ,” Vivianne spat. “Of course she—”

She seemed to realize she had an audience, and she snapped her mouth shut and stared at her skirt. “Is—is that all?” she asked.

“Not quite,” Elaine replied. “We’re figuring out the funeral arrangements. We think we’ll have the funeral and the reception afterward on Saturday. That should—give us enough time to sort everything out. Vivianne, do you want to come?”

Vivianne looked up. “What kind of a question is that?”

“Just asking,” Elaine answered. “Your mother or I will pick you up tomorrow afternoon, then. We’ll make the arrangements with Professor Yaxley in the morning.”

Finally, Elaine turned back to Rowan. “Rowan—honey—do you want to come?”

Rowan opened her mouth.

“You don’t have to,” Elaine said before anything could come out – before Rowan could think of anything _to_ come out. “You absolutely do not have to. And I will not blame you if you don’t. Trust me.”

“Um,” was all Rowan could manage to say. “I’ll—I’ll—um …”

“You can take some time to think about it,” Elaine said. “Send Darwin ‘round with a note. Tell him to go to my cottage – I’ll stop in a couple of times to check the mail.”

“Okay,” Rowan nodded. “And—are y-y-you okay, M-Mum?”

Finally Rowan got an answer—or at least something resembling an answer. Her mother shot her a rueful smile. “I’ve been better, sweet.”

“Is—is that all, then?” Vivianne asked. “Or are we all just going to sit here asking each other if we’re all right?”

Rowan stared at her cousin. There was no need to be—

Vivianne was still awfully pale. Her hands her folding in on each other. And there was something suspiciously glassy in her eyes.

Rowan put a hand on her shoulder before she could think better of it. She wasn’t surprised when Vivianne shook it off.

“We’re done, Vivianne.” Elaine glanced at Rowan. “We’ll talk tomorrow, sweet? I’m sorry to cut this short—but things are a bit mad over here.”

“Okay, M-M-Mum. I’m—I’m s-s-sorry.”

Elaine smiled – and she started blinking very rapidly. “Thanks—thanks, sweetie. I love you.”

“L-l-love you t-t-too, Mum.”

Elaine swallowed, and her face winked out of the flames. Leaving Rowan alone with Vivianne.

Slowly, Rowan turned to her cousin. Vivianne stared at the flames, banked down now that Elaine wasn’t in them anymore. “V-V-Vivianne?”

“Don’t,” Vivianne snapped. “Whatever—whatever you’re going to say—I don’t bloody want to hear it!”

“O-okay,” Rowan replied.

“And don’t—don’t _look_ at me like that!” Not giving Rowan a chance to reply, Vivianne stood up—nearly knocking the chair over—and swept to the door.

Rowan stumbled to her feet and followed. Vivianne threw the door open—

And stopped dead.

Glancing under Vivianne’s arm, Rowan could see why. There was a crowd waiting for them. Her friends – Ben – Professor Yaxley and Professor Flitwick.

“Everything all right, girls?” Professor Flitwick asked.

Rowan could see Vivianne’s hand on the doorknob. They couldn’t. It was starting to tremble.

So Rowan spoke. “Our—our G-G-Grandmother G-G-Gorlois—she p-p-passed away.”

“Oh, _sh_ —” Candice started, and thanks to Aubrey, did not finish.

And nobody else had a chance to speak. Professor Yaxley drew in a ragged gasp. “What? What do you mean—Aunt Igraine, _dead_? That—that can’t be!”

Vivianne’s hand was shaking enough to rattle the doorknob.

“V-Vivianne …” Rowan started.

“I have to go!” Vivianne said—and without another word, charged out the door and down the hall.

Somehow Rowan got the sense that if Vivianne had a shred less dignity, she would have been running.

“Vivianne! Where are you going? Wait!” Professor Yaxley demanded, hurrying after Vivianne – not easy in her tottering, impractical heels.

Professor Flitwick glanced from his colleague and Vivianne to Rowan. “Rowan—are you all right? Do you need to talk?”

“I’m f-f-fine,” Rowan replied. She glanced at Ben and her friends and said it again. “I’m f-f-fine.”

Professor Flitwick looked at Ben, Jon, Quill, Candice, Aubrey, and Blair. Rowan thought she saw him smile. “I’m sure you will be. Now—please excuse me …” With one last smile and nod, he hurried after Professor Yaxley and Vivianne, leaving Rowan alone with Ben and her friends in the corridor.

Rowan swallowed and pushed her hair back with her hand. “Oh … M-M-Merlin.”

* * *

Jon was the first to respond; maybe it should have been Ben, but he was a big believer that sometimes best friends needed to come first. Jon took about three steps over to Rowan and pulled her into a big bear hug. Then Candice hugged Rowan and Jon together, and it turned into a big, goofy ball o’ hugs with Rowan in the middle, all of her friends around her, and Ben wished he had a camera, because it was really kinda beautiful.

But it really didn’t surprise Ben when Quill was the first one to break the circle. Nor that Jon smoothed Rowan’s hair when he let go and pinched her cheek, which caused Rowan to give him a sour look.

“Are you going to the funeral?” Candice was now the recipient of the sour looks.

“Oh my god, Candice, you can’t just ask people about the funeral.” Ben couldn’t help it; it was serious, and sad and just … hearing Quill with his deep, almost gravelly voice with its thick, working-class Liverpudlian accent doing a pitch perfect mimic of Gretchen Weiners from _Mean Girls_ was just too damned funny. Ben snorted and then coughed a few times in his hand when everyone looked at him.

“I’m just practicing for the proctologist over here, don’t mind me,” Ben said, which caused Rowan and Candice to both choke and Quill to laugh.

“And what precisely is a ‘proctologist’?” Blair asked.

“It’s a doctor who studies assholes,” Ben said sunnily.

Rowan opened her mouth, and Candice slapped her hand over it.

“I’ve got to see this,” Candice hissed when Rowan glared at her.

“A— _what_?”

“No, literally – it’s a Muggle Healer who studies the anus, rectum, and colon regions of the body,” Ben explained, helpfully. Although somehow from the expression on the faces of Rowan’s friends, they probably didn’t think he was being all that helpful. “Basically he or she looks at assholes all day, not unlike most of Slytherin house.”

“Ben!” Rowan finally burst out, blushing furiously.

“Oh, honey-bear.” Jon put his arm around Rowan’s shoulder. “You should just relax and enjoy it, you’re not changing him—and honestly, would you want to change him?”

“I swear my aunt taught me manners; I just think they’re still in customs.” Ben shrugged ruefully, giving Rowan a lopsided grin. She smiled back.

“Well, despite what Quill says,” Candice brushed her bangs off her forehead, “are you?”

“I—I,” Rowan lost what little smile she’d found. “M-m-mum s-s-said I d-don’t _have_ to g-go. I w-would if it w-was G-G-Grandma O’B-Blake, of c-c-course, b-but …” She stared at her feet. They were in very cute little blue fuzzy slippers – but, well, he just hoped that she stored them away from each other, otherwise one day they’d open a door in the dorm and it’d be full of tribbles. “I-I d-d-didn’t even g-go to m-m-my g-g-g-granddad’s funeral,” she admitted miserably. “And he—d-d-didn’t h-hate m-m-me,” she added quietly.

“She didn’t _know_ you, darlin’,” Ben said. “She might’ve hated the _idea_ of you, but well – honestly, sweetheart, hate’s probably too strong for that too.”

“Do you even know how to be reassuring?” Blair asked, eyebrow quirked in Ben’s direction.

“No,” Ben told her blandly. “Point still remains: what she didn’t like had nothing to do with you.”

“That kinda sounds like something from a self-help book.” Candice brushed at her bangs again – and again – and again as they fell in her eyes. Quill sighed and pulled something out of his pocket, handing it to Candice.

“Thanks.” She sighed and clipped her hair out of her face with the hairpins.

“You’re welcome. I need ‘em back, though, eventually. Nothing like needing to pick a door lock and not having them.” Quill gave her something that might have been a smile, if Ben was any sort of judge.

“It is—and a rather unhelpful sort of cliché, too.” Ben went back to Candice’s criticism. “It’s just not _untrue_.”

“Clichés aside, nobody says you have to go to the funeral of the snobby lady who hates you. Hated you. Or whatever she actually hated,” Candice continued. “When is this thing?”

“Saturday.”

“You could go spend Saturday with a bunch of Yaxley and Queen Vivianne clones who are all up on their inbred thrones or you could spend Saturday here at school and watch Ravenclaw pummel Slytherin in our first game—and then eat a whole bunch of candy with us,” Candice told her. “It’s a no brainer.”

“It’s not your brain that matters here,” Jon said. “I know something about relatives who hate you for what you are—and if Stan keeled over tomorrow, I’d go.”

“Not the least because he and Austin would need to snog for hours on his freshly dug grave,” Aubrey muttered to Blair, who frowned.

“Guilty. But I’d still go.”

“I d-d-don’t kn-n-know.” Rowan sighed.

Ben reached in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a quarter. He carried it everywhere; his aunt had given it to him, one of the new state quarters. He grabbed Rowan’s hand and pressed the coin into it.

She opened her hand and looked in askance at the shiny silver piece on her palm.

“Flip it.” Ben advised. “George, you stay. Lone Star State—” He got about that far into his explanation before he got several blank looks. “Brits.” Ben shook his head. “Texas—it’s the called the Lone Star State, after the state flag. And beside the point,” he dismissed. “Texas—you go.”

“B-b-b-but—j-j-j-just f-flip a c-c-coin?” Rowan asked.

“Isn’t that a trifle—lackadaisical?” Blair grimaced. Jon, however, was watching him steadily. Ben, for his part, was mostly watching Rowan.

“Yep, just flip the coin. Whatever George says, you do.”

Rowan looked back and forth between her friends, the quarter, and Ben, before taking a deep breath and tossing the coin up in the air.

He wasn’t sure if wizards really could affect time just by paying enough attention to it, but the track of the coin up in the air before it made its way back to Rowan’s outstretched hand seemed to take an awful lot longer than it should have. She caught it and flipped it out onto the back of her palm.

Six pairs of eyes, two brown, one hazel, one silver, one green, and one rather mulberryish colored, were locked on Rowan’s hand drawing away from the coin. Ben’s eyes, however, were locked on Rowan’s face, not her hands.

“G-George W-W-W-Washington.” Rowan bit her lip.

“Stay,” Candice said smugly.

“You’re going to trust a coin on this?” Jon shook his head.

“I-I s-s-should f-flip it a-again.” Rowan was still staring at the coin.

“Don’t need to—go.” Ben quirked his mouth up into a familiar lopsided smile.

“But you said George Washington was—stay,” Quill said, puzzled.

“Sometimes you just need to give yourself the illusion of putting it in chance’s hands to figure out what you know all along,” Ben told him. “Rowan already knew what her decision was—it was there clear on her face when she flipped the coin and saw George. If she had really wanted to stay here, she’d have been relieved when George showed up.”

“You, s-sir, are a _genius_.” Rowan bounced up onto her tip toes and pecked a kiss on his cheek that he maybe only sorta had to help her out with.

“‘Course I am.” Ben smirked at the Ravenclaws. “It’s just nice to hear it from someone other than me, y’know?”

* * *

No, Vivianne did not want to have some tea.

No, she did not want to go to Madam Pomfrey.

No, she did not want to talk to anyone.

What she wanted – all she wanted – was to get to her dorm room, crawl into bed, close the curtains and cast the strongest Silencing Charm she knew. She didn’t plan beyond that.

The universe, however, had other plans.

When Vivianne finally made it back into the common room, she thought she might be able to make it to her dormitory. But a first-year girl had camped out in front of the sliding wall, and as soon as Vivianne was inside, she jumped up and gasped, “Vivianne!”

So much for an unobtrusive entrance.

Vivianne blinked and forced herself to focus. The girl in front of her – Niniane Morgause, who preferred to go by Ana – was already tall for her age, with trademark Gorlois dark hair and bright emerald eyes. She was chewing on her bottom lip and clutching a letter.

To make matters worse, Guinevere Lynette – who preferred to go by Snow – was sitting on the sofa Ana had just vacated.

To make matters _even_ worse, Belle, Sybilla, and Cornelia had heard Ana call out and were now hurrying closer to the sliding wall.

Vivianne took a deep breath and forced herself to _focus_ on Ana. “Yes?”

“My—I just got a letter from my mum.” Ana spoke with a faint Scottish accent. If Vivianne remembered correctly, she and her family lived in a small village near Aberdeen. “She—she said that Great-Aunt Igraine … died?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Vivianne saw Sybilla stop short and gasp – actually gasp.

“Is that true, Vivianne?” asked Snow.

Staring at the two younger girls, Vivianne wondered what it had been like the last time this happened – the last time a Matriarch died suddenly, without warning, and the new one rose to take her place. Had there been the same surprise and nervousness? Had the Gorlois girls in Hogwarts clustered around the eldest of their number and asked if the rumors they were hearing were true?

She didn’t know—she wished she knew—but the one person she could ask, she couldn’t ask, because—

Vivianne closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and answered the question.

“Yes.”

Ana gasped and Snow’s eyes went wide.

And that was when Belle, Sybilla, and Cornelia drew level with the group. Sybilla’s eyes were round as two Sickles.

Belle looked from Vivianne to the younger girls and back again. “Vivianne … is—isn’t your grandmother’s name …?”

If she tried to say it out loud, she didn’t know what would come out. Not when Belle put it like that.

Vivianne bit down hard on the inside of her lips and nodded.

“Oh, _Vivianne_ ,” Belle murmured. And brooking no argument from anyone, she swept past the younger girls and wrapped Vivianne in a hug.

Belle was shorter than Vivianne—much shorter—and Vivianne was leaning on her anyway. She wanted to straighten, but Belle wouldn’t let go enough to let her.

“I’m so sorry, Vivianne. Are you all right?” she asked.

Vivianne’s shoulders hitched once. Just once. But that seemed to tell Belle what she needed to know, because she didn’t ask again.

Vivianne swallowed and looked past Belle. Sybilla seemed rooted where she stood, watching Vivianne with very large eyes. Cornelia had put her hand up to cover her gasp, and it seemed frozen there.

She saw Vivianne looking at her, blinked a few times, and turned toward the dorms without a word – she was almost running.

Sybilla seemed to come to herself with the sound and gave a brisk shake of her head. “Come on,” she said, “Belle—let’s get Vivianne sitting down.”

Belle pulled away and surveyed Vivianne with narrowed eyes. Whatever she saw made her nod. “That’s a good idea. Come on, Vivianne; let’s sit so you can catch your breath.”

Belle on one side, Sybilla on the other, they made their way into the common room. Vivianne walked slowly, taking deep breaths, arms crossed over her chest like she was cold.

All around them was a soft sound – like the lapping of waves on the shore or the wind whistling through the rushes. Whispers. The snakes were spreading the news, and within five minutes, everyone from the most wide-eyed first-year to the most jaded seventh-year would have heard.

“Belle!” That was Thane Alderton, a third-year. “You guys— _ladies_ can have the sofa closest to the fire.”

“Yeah,” said Nolan Radford, “we don’t need it anymore. We were just leaving.”

Vivianne found it in herself to smile at them, while Belle said, “Thanks, boys. We appreciate it.”

“No trouble, Belle,” said Thane, the tips of his ears turning red before Nolan elbowed him and dragged him away.

Sybilla and Belle guided Vivianne to the sofa, which she sank onto gratefully. She barely took a seat before she felt something twining around her ankles.

Vivianne looked down and saw Canyon. He glanced up and purred.

“Hello, Canyon,” Vivianne murmured. She extended her hand to him to sniff.

Canyon ignored the hand. He leaped onto her lap, purring and purring, kneading Vivianne’s legs with his paws and depositing black-and-tan fur all over her jumper as he nudged Vivianne and snuggled up to her.

Vivianne took a deep breath and petted the cat.

“Vivianne,” Belle asked. She was sitting very close to Vivianne – Sybilla too, albeit on the other side, “have you cried yet?”

Vivianne bit her lip and shook her head.

“Here,” Belle said, handing over a lacy handkerchief. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Vivianne stared at the handkerchief. She turned to Sybilla, frowning.

Sybilla patted Vivianne’s back. “Whenever you’re ready, Vivianne.”

Vivianne’s shoulders hitched a second time.

“Vivianne! Where’s Vivianne?”

Vivianne looked up. That was Cornelia, running from the dorms. She had a box in her hands …

“There you are!” She dashed to where the girls were sitting, taking her own seat on the coffee table in front of them. “Look what I found! Fizzing Whizzbees!” She opened the box and held it under Vivianne’s nose. “They’re your favorite, aren’t they?”

Vivianne stared at the box and at the pink-and-purple sherbet balls inside of it, and for a minute …

_“Psst! Vivianne!”_

_Vivianne – five years old, sitting in the corner, trying not to be noticed by all the black-robed adults standing around and talking in low murmurs – looked up._

_But it was only Aunt Nell – Aunt Nell whose real name was Aunt Ragnell Morgause, but who always said to call her Aunt Nell – Aunt Nell with the big smile and the laughing purple eyes – Aunt Nell and her older daughter Les (Lyonesse Dindrane), who was a big girl but who always let Vivianne play with her – Aunt Nell, who, right now, was crouching down to Vivianne’s level and holding out a box of pink-and-purple sherbet balls. “Look what I’ve got! Fizzing Whizzbees! Your grandmum told me that they were your favorite.”_

_Vivianne gasped. Because Fizzing Whizzbees were her favorite. She reached out for one—_

_And stopped._

_Granddad always gave her Fizzing Whizzbees. He’d slip them into her hand during a boring dinner or a long and dull afternoon, and he’d wink. “You didn’t get these from me, Viv,” he’d say, putting a finger to his lips._

_And Vivianne would laugh and eat a whole handful of them, so many that she’d start floating toward the ceiling while Granddad walked away whistling – at least until Grandmother saw and snapped, “Perseus! Did you give her Fizzing Whizzbees again?”_

_And Granddad would gasp and put a hand on his heart, and he’d ask with big puppy eyes, “Me? Give Vivianne Fizzing Whizzbees? Why do you think I would do that?”_

_Remembering that, Vivianne’s lips began to wobble and she couldn’t stop them._

_Because Granddad was dead. Dead was when they put you in the big vault downstairs and didn’t let you out again. He wasn’t going to come up to play with Vivianne anymore. Or kiss the top of Grandmother’s head. Or give Mummy a big hug when one of her boyfriends was mean to her._

_Dead meant you weren’t allowed to have fun anymore. And if Granddad wasn’t allowed to have fun, Vivianne didn’t want to have fun either. Besides, Grandmother had told her that she had to be good, and floating up to the ceiling wasn’t being good. Probably._

_So Vivianne drew her hand back, and shook her head, and frowned. “No, thank you, Aunt Nell.”_

_“No?” Aunt Nell asked. “How about we go out into the garden and you and Elle can have some?” Aunt Nell put her hand on Les’s shoulder. “You grandmother said that you could have all you wanted, out in the garden.”_

_“Grandmother said?” Vivianne asked. She looked around._

_Grandmother was standing at the far end of the room, talking with a man with long black hair with silver streaked through it. Next to him was another man, tall and blunt-featured with long blond hair tied back in a tail. Vivianne knew the second man; he was Grandmother’s cousin and Uncle Victor’s great friend Brutus – Brutus Yaxley – but she didn’t know the first one, even if all the grown-ups were whispering about him and calling him “the Minister.”_

_Grandmother didn’t look happy talking to them. Her mouth was pressed in a thin, tight line as she nodded. She looked tired, too, but she’d looked tired for days._

_Still, somehow she looked up – and saw Vivianne looking. She smiled. It wasn’t a big smile, but it was a real smile._

_Her eyes flickered to Aunt Nell, then back to Vivianne. She lifted her hand and made a small shooing motion._

_And Vivianne smiled – really smiled – and looked up at Aunt Nell. “Okay,” she said._

_“Great. Come on, Vivianne.” Aunt Nell took one of Vivianne’s hands. She nodded at Les and Les took Vivianne’s other hand._

_They led her out to the gardens, where Vivianne ate Fizzing Whizzbees and floated and ate more Fizzing Whizzbees and kept floating, at least until everyone left and it was just Grandmother and Mummy and Vivianne. Like normal._

_Except it wouldn’t be normal anymore, because Granddad wouldn’t be there._

Vivianne breathed in with a gasp—and when she came to herself again, the Fizzing Whizzbees were still in front of her. Cornelia shook the box under Vivianne’s nose in a way she probably thought was enticing.

Vivianne’s gorge rose in her and she slapped a hand over her mouth, leaning her head on Sybilla’s shoulder. She took a few deep breaths, eyes closed. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Cornelia, I can’t. If I try to eat anything I’ll be sick—”

“Put it away, put it away!” Belle hissed.

“Sorry, Vivianne!” Cornelia replied, sounding actually contrite. “I didn’t think—”

Vivianne started to shake her head. She wanted to tell Cornelia that it was all right, that Cornelia couldn’t have known. That she appreciated the thought.

She didn’t get a chance. The door to the common room scraped open, and James’s voice came with it. “You bloody _idiot_!”

Vivianne brought her head up. Even Belle and Sybilla were looking up and back toward the door.

“Oh, shut it, James,” Blake snapped.

“No, I’m not going to shut it! Bloody hell! The game against Ravenclaw is in _two days_ , Blake! I do not need my best Chaser getting himself into detention for hexing an idiot Gryffindor—and I _definitely_ don’t need him in the bloody hospital wing because he picked on Niketa’s favorite Gryffindor!”

“She’s not dating him!” Blake fired back. “She’s told _everybody_ she’s not dating him. With hexes! If she’s not dating him, why’s she care enough about him to hex _me_ for trying to—”

“I don’t know, I don’t care, it’s _not_ my job to figure out why! Just leave him and the other Gryffindors alone, and don’t get on Niketa’s bad side again! _Merlin_!” James threw his hands in the air and turned away from his friend.

He paused, looking around the silent and subdued common room. “… Did we miss something?”

“Yeah. What the hell?” Blake asked, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Who died?”

Gasps all around—and Canyon, vaulting from Vivianne’s lap to the back of the sofa. His fur plumped up, and he hissed and spat at Blake.

“Bloody hell!” Blake jumped back, his wand already out and pointing at Canyon. “Merlin, Vivianne, can’t you keep that thing under control?”

“Oh, no, you _didn’t_ ,” Sybilla whispered.

“Blake,” James started, putting a hand on his friend’s arm, “I think—”

He didn’t get a chance to finish.

Vivianne stood up.

She could feel the silence rippling out from her, the sense of breaths drawn in and held. It was the wait between the lightning and the crash of the thunder.

So perhaps the Slytherins were within their rights to be somewhat disappointed by what came immediately from Vivianne’s mouth. Disappointed and surprised. For that matter, Vivianne was surprised too.

“… I don’t have time for this.”

Blake raised an eyebrow at her. “Don’t have time for _what_? For Merlin’s sake—”

“I do not have time,” Vivianne went on, her voice rising with every word, “for your _ego_ – and your _entitlement_ – your complete and total lack of sensitivity – and Merlin knows I do _not_ have time for your stupidity!”

Then the Slytherins got the payoff they were waiting for.

“We are _done_ , Blake!” Vivianne shouted.

Canyon echoed the point with a hiss.

“What? Oh, come _on_ , Vivianne—”

“You pointed a wand at her _cat_ , mate,” James muttered out of the side of his mouth. “You _know_ what happens when people torment her cat.”

“He walked right into that one,” Vivianne heard Cornelia murmur.

Without another word, Vivianne picked Canyon up and cradled him close to her. She stomped toward the door leading out of the common room. Slytherins young and old parted to let her pass—James even pulled Blake out of the way.

Vivianne’s hands were shaking as she got closer to the door. Canyon just purred, rubbing his head on Vivianne’s shoulder.

But Blake couldn’t let it rest. “You know what? Fine, Vivianne! You’re a frigid bitch anyway! And a bloody tease!”

More gasps.

Vivianne stopped.

She turned around.

“You know what, Blake?” she asked. Her tone was as sickly-sweet as she could make it. “You asked a question earlier. And nobody answered. That’s a bit rude, now that I think of it—and I’d _hate_ to have it said that I was _rude_ , even to an ex-boyfriend.”

“What ques—” Blake started.

“You asked who died,” Vivianne went on. She managed to find it in her to smile. “My grandmother, Blake. That’s who died. My grandmother.”

She stood there just long enough to watch Blake’s jaw fall and the blood drain from his face.

Then, with another sickly-sweet smile, Vivianne turned on her heel and stormed out of the common room.

* * *

“I’m not. I’m not!”

Zach had already made the circuit of this chunk of hallway; all of the classrooms had been empty. It was particularly cold tonight and these were far enough from the common rooms that no one wanted to hike this far for a snog, especially not with the fact that this chunk of dungeon had more than a few drafts, evidenced by the way even the enchanted flames flickered, near guttering when the wind gusted. But the voice was unmistakable, the cultured accent, the thread of musical iron in it. “Come _on_ , Vivianne; this is no time to be useless. Grand-Grandmother will be so disappointed in you if you can’t be anything more than your mother right now.”

He found his way to the open classroom door. Lit by a single candle, the shadows almost swallowed the room’s single occupant. Her head was bowed, arms braced against the desk, hair a dark curtain between her and the rest of the world.

“Oh, what does it matter—Grandmother will never be disappointed in you again. She’s not—not here to be proud of you, so what does it matter?” The heartbroken timbre was absolutely rending.

“Vivianne?” Zach asked from the door. She gasped and whirled around to face him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Zach.” She exhaled sharply. “I’m sorry. Please don’t take points off, I just—I couldn’t be in the common room right now—not between Blake and—and—everything. Professor Yaxley—well, she didn’t because—uh—she didn’t know I’ve left—but she would—she _would_.”

“I can’t take off points, Vivianne. Didn’t you know Blake emptied the hourglass entirely after his little hex war with Booker McChurch? There wasn’t even anything left for Professor Puccini to take off when Niketa went after Blake right outside the library.” Zach shrugged ruefully.

“ _Wonderful_. I _am_ my mother all over again—useless and falling apart when everyone needs me most— _and_ absolutely lousy taste in men to top it off.” She threw herself onto a desk in what could only be despair.

Zach closed the door to the classroom and moved a little further into the room. “Vivianne, would you like to talk about it?” he asked. “And don’t tell me nothing’s wrong.”

She looked at him, her eyes managing to catch what little light there was, probably due to the tears standing in them, thick enough he knew they’d have to be half-blinding.

“My grandmother’s—my—my mother’s sister, my aunt Elaine, she—she fire-talked us earlier. My grandmother had a—a heart attack, she’s—she didn’t make it,” Vivianne admitted, her voice fading as she stumbled through the pair of sentences, finishing at just a bare whisper.

“Oh, Merlin,” Zach breathed.

“I don’t understand how this could happen—my grandmother has been healthy as a—a bloody hippogriff!” she said into the hands she brought up to shield her face. Zach moved through the room and sat down on the table next to her. He touched the shoulder of her jumper, tentatively, the way one would move to touch an injured creature. When she didn’t immediately shake off the hand, he rubbed lightly. She leaned just a little toward him—just for a moment—then she shuddered and pulled herself upright again, though she still didn’t brush his hand away.

He didn’t have a lot to say that wasn’t cliché, so he didn’t say anything, and Vivianne didn’t seem to expect anything.

“The funeral is on Saturday. Funeral.” She spat the word. “If I know Grandmother, she’s got everything she wants done for a service planned out, filed appropriately with Great-Aunt Dindrane, I’m sure—she’ll—actually she probably has already set all the wheels in motion.” Vivianne shook her head and dropped her hands to her lap. “I won’t have to do anything but pick out a pair of dress robes and figure out how I’m fixing my hair. Which is just _wonderful_.”

“Uh, I’m afraid I lost the Snitch on that turn,” Zach admitted.

“That’s all anyone ever needs Mother to do.” Vivianne shuddered, then began shivering. He wasn’t sure if it was the temperature, with the wind buffeting the small windows and sending drafts in every crevice, or reaction. He sighed faintly and pulled his wand from his pocket. A few murmurs and some concentration later, he’d conjured a semi-decent windbreaking fortification and magicked up a fire in the fireplace. He slid off the table and offered Vivianne his hand to help her down – as he had a few days ago. She took it, a familiar frisson passing between him and her.

“What is this anyway?” Vivianne asked, sitting down on the pillow, close to the fire.

“It’s a blanket fort; Jon and I used to make them when we were young,” Zach admitted. “It’ll help with the drafts.”

“Only a Hufflepuff would conjure a blanket fort and a fire instead of sending me back to my common room like anyone with sense,” Vivianne said, though her half-smile did mitigate most of the sting the words came with.

“I couldn’t do that—just toss a person into a pit of vipers,” Zach said, looking up at the blanket overhead.

“It is my common room,” Vivianne muttered.

“It’s Claudia’s common room too. And she’s not prone to exaggeration,” Zach told her.

“Merlin’s beard, Zach – if I can’t even handle the common room, how will I handle people like Uncle Victor and the great-aunts? Especially the ones who never agreed with my grandmother and will use the funeral as a forum for thinly veiled insults?”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t handle it,” Zach told her, leaning forward a bit in his earnestness. “I said I wouldn’t toss you into it. I have no doubt that you’d handle it just fine.”

“You have less doubt than I do right now, then. Blake called me a frigid bitch and a tease and I didn’t even hex him for it,” Vivianne admitted.

“Blake’s a fucking moron,” Zach said, his voice bitter and almost raw, like the wind whipping against the sides of Hogwarts.

“And I dated him—I led him on a merry chase for months. What’s that say about me?” Vivianne asked with none of the threat that under most circumstances would have accompanied the comment. Her words sounded almost pained.

“My mum was married to my father for _nine years_ —straight out of Hogwarts—’til he left _her_.” Zach shook his head. “Sometimes the rose comes with thorns you don’t see until later. Some people are better at hiding those thorns.” Zach shrugged.

“What did your mum do when your father left?” Vivianne asked, looking at Zach intently.

“She took all of her savings—every bit of pocket and pin money she had squirreled away over the years—and started a robes shop,” Zach said. “And she raised me. And she even forgave my father.”

“And she’s a good designer; I’ve seen some of the pictures of her designs, from Frida,” Vivianne mused.

“I like to think so – but she is my mum, so I’m biased.”

“It’s okay. So am I.” Vivianne tucked her hair behind her ear.

“You know what my mum tells me about mistakes?” Zach said, pulling a knee up to his chest.

“Hmmm?”

“It’s not making them that matters, everyone makes them—it’s what you do after them that matters.” Zach shrugged. “I’m not helping any, am I?”

“Yes, you are. You are, Zach. Someday you’ll have to tell me how you do it.” Vivianne sighed and looked sidelong at him.

“Do what?” Zach asked.

“Make—make a person feel better without making them feel bad about needing it.” Vivianne smiled faintly, her hair sliding out of its tuck and curtaining her face again. Before he even thought about it – and later, when he did think about it, he’d wonder why he didn’t think about it – he gently hooked a finger in the thick, heavy curtain, dragging it back behind her ear again.

“Isn’t there a quote out there that says ‘the truly great make you, too, think you can be great,’ or something like it?” Zach mused. “I guess I’m just great.” He laughed, but Vivianne looked at him seriously.

“That’s truer than you know,” Vivianne said. “But even if you won’t toss me into the snakes’ den, I need to go back to it—before we both get in trouble. But—thank you.”

“You’re welcome. If you ever need another blanket fort, lemme know.” Zach climbed to his feet and helped Vivianne to hers.

“I will.” Vivianne said with a solemnness he again wouldn’t have expected. She leaned over and kissed his cheek, lingeringly, as she had that day in Hogsmeade, and just as he had then, his hand touched his cheek after she walked away.

“I hope you do,” Zach whispered, even though the wind was the only thing to hear him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the halfway point! Thanks to everyone who has stuck with us so far - and hold onto your hats, because the rest will be one bumpy ride!


	28. Chapter 27: You Can't Go Home Again

**Chapter 27: You Can’t Go Home Again**

“Yeh sure I can’t get yeh summat?” Hagrid asked. “I got some treacle fudge ‘ere. Fix yeh up a treat, it will.”

“No—no, thank you, Hagrid,” Elaine said. “I appreciate the thought, believe me, but … well, Mother’s—Josie’s—Vivianne’s? I don’t even know. Ettie, the house-elf at Caer Tintagel, she’s fixing dinner for all of us. I … I don’t know her, you understand, but I gather …”

“Can’t go not eatin’ what a house-elf puts in front o’ yeh. It’ll put them off _their_ feed.” Hagrid took a seat. Even though the seat in question was in his cabin and was presumably used by him every day, it creaked rather alarmingly under his weight.

He leaned forward, bushy brows drawn in, frowning in concern. “An’ how about yeh, Elaine? How’re yeh holdin’ up?”

Elaine took a deep breath, sighed, and glanced out the window. The rain was still coming down in sheets, but at least it _was_ rain today and not an awful mix of sleet, slush, and Merlin only knew what. She couldn’t see more than fifty feet up the path, not nearly far enough to tell if Rowan or Vivianne was coming.

She turned back to Hagrid and shrugged. “I’ve been better. You?”

Hagrid shook his head. “Ain’t easy, losin’ yer ma,” he said.

“And you would know,” Elaine murmured. Hagrid had talked about the giant half of his family more than once, the mother who had left and who had died before he could find her again. No, it wasn’t easy to lose your mother – especially if you had to lose her twice.

Elaine threw herself into one of the chairs, elbows on the table, head buried in her hands. Her mother was probably watching her from wherever she was and throwing up her hands in despair about Elaine’s manners.

The thought was comforting, in a way. It certainly wasn’t as irksome as it had been this time yesterday.

Elaine took a deep breath and shook herself. “Tell—tell Professor Rove that I appreciate him—well, whatever he did to let us Floo out of here.” She nodded her head toward Hagrid’s massive fireplace. “He didn’t have to do that, but all the same, I can’t say I was looking forward to having to bring the girls to my cottage through _this_.” She jerked her thumb to the window.

Hagrid snorted. “Like Rove did anythin’. Filius had ter figure out how ter take the Floo wards off.”

“Well, he had to give permission.” Elaine shrugged.

“True that. True that.” Hagrid nodded.

Elaine rolled her shoulders. She could feel Hagrid still watching her, inviting confidences if she wanted to share them. And it wasn’t that she didn’t want to share them. It was that …

The world had turned upside down in less than a day. Somewhere in the back of Elaine’s mind there had been a certainty that Igraine would always be there, holding court in Caer Tintagel and somehow keeping the vast network of the Gorlois clan on the right side of the law and each other … well, more or less. The idea that she wasn’t there anymore – that the Gorlois clan was now nominally headed by a sixteen-year-old kid who by rights shouldn’t be worrying about anything more serious than her next Transfiguration test and whether that cute boy would say yes if she were to ask him to Hogsmeade …

What was the world coming to?

And to make matters worse, the fact that Igraine had dropped dead – of a _heart attack?_ – the very day that Elaine was supposed to meet her for the first time in nine years?

What were the odds?

_Rat-a-tat-tat!_

Elaine came to herself with a start. “Come in!” Hagrid shouted. “Think it’s Filius an’ Rowan,” he added to Elaine.

The door to the cabin opened, and Hagrid was proved right as two short cloaked figures stumbled inside – as well as a whole lot of rain.

“Rowan!” Elaine hurried to her feet and to the taller of the two cloaked figures, the one with the duffel bag slung over a shoulder.

“Mum!”

Not caring about the soaking wet cloak, Elaine caught Rowan up in a hug. And for a minute, things felt—right. She had her girl, and the rest …

_And Rowan,_ she promised herself, _I don’t care what kind of boy – or girl – you bring home. I don’t care what you do. We are not going years without talking._

_Life is too damn short._

“You okay, M-Mum?” Rowan asked.

Elaine pulled back, pushing the hood from Rowan’s head and the hair out of Rowan’s face. Rowan watched Elaine’s face with that serious, thoughtful expression she’d had ever since she was a baby.

But something about it made Elaine blink. She’d always thought her girl looked just like Robert when she did that. But—maybe it was the fact that Elaine had spent most of the day in Caer Tintagel, with ancestors glowering from every painting and albums full of photos of Igraine, even photos from her school days …

_Mother?_

Rowan blew a strand of her hair out of her face and the illusion was broken.

Elaine shook herself. “I’m fine, sweet. Don’t worry about me.” She pushed Rowan’s hair back again, doing her best to smile.

A small, polite cough broke through the reverie. Elaine looked up. Professor Flitwick was smiling at her. “Hello, Elaine. I just want to give you my condolences – and, er, fortunately or unfortunately, I do have to ask for some identification.”

“What, you don’t recognize me?” Elaine joked. She reached into the pocket of her robes and pulled out her badge and official Auror identification. “This work?”

Professor Flitwick waved his wand and the identification floated over. “Yes, this does admirably. Thank you, Elaine. You know we can’t be too careful.”

“Do I know that,” Elaine sighed. She plucked the identification from the air when Professor Flitwick floated it back to her.

“Well—unfortunately I do have to be getting back,” Professor Flitwick said. “You have my condolences, both of you. And Rowan, you know that once you get back, my door is always open.”

“I know, P-Professor. Thank y-you,” Rowan said with a little smile.

“Yes, thank you,” Elaine added. “Although, before you go …”

She worried her lip. She didn’t want to get into too many details with Hagrid standing there – Rowan deserved some semblance of privacy – but when was the next time she’d have Professor Flitwick’s undivided attention? In person, no less? “How are—er—things going?” She nodded to Rowan.

Rowan started to blush.

Professor Flitwick glanced at Rowan as well. “Things are—progressing,” he answered. “However, I can say that Professor Lipskit and Professor Zanetti have strong plans in place for dealing with the … problem.” He shot Rowan a smile. “Cheer up, Rowan. It’ll be all right.”

With that, he politely took his leave of them.

As soon as he was gone, Hagrid turned to Rowan. “Well, Rowan, how are yeh doin’? Can I get yeh summat? Yer mum wouldn’t take my treacle fudge, but if yeh want, I can cut yeh a piece.”

“Th-thanks, Hagrid, but—n-n-no thanks,” Rowan said. “L-l-lunch wasn’t that l-long ago, f-for me.”

_Well, that’s a relief._ The last thing Elaine needed was to get a frantic fire-talk from Madam Pomfrey saying that Rowan had to be put into the infirmary after eating too much of Hagrid’s cooking.

Before Hagrid could press more, Elaine noticed two dark shapes pass the window. A brisk, businesslike knock confirmed her suspicions.

“Door’s open!” Hagrid called. “Here we go,” he added with a wink to Rowan.

Rowan chuckled as the door opened.

“Well! I don’t see what’s so funny, Miss O’Blake. This is _hardly_ a laughing occasion, I would think,” Rosie sniffed. She stepped inside, looking around the small cabin with a nose wrinkled in distaste.

Behind her, wrapped in a purple cloak that was so wet and dark that it was almost black, came Vivianne. Vivianne held a small valise in both hands and stared at the floor.

She really was Josie all over again – in features, at least. But Josie never looked that sad when she was as young as Vivianne. Maybe that was why Elaine wanted to give her a big hug and not let go until the girl cracked a smile again.

But she didn’t have time for that right now, and even if she did, she doubted Vivianne would accept it. She rolled her eyes at Hogwarts’s Potions Mistress. “Hello to you too, Rosie. It’s been so long. How’s the family?”

Rosie sniffed and turned her nose up. “As if _you_ would care!”

“Well, it was worth a shot,” Elaine said, winking at Rowan. “We’re always on the lookout to see what her husband is going to get himself into next time. Would have been nice to have some advance intelligence.”

Rowan slapped both her hands in front of her mouth to keep the giggles from escaping – not that it was necessary. Hagrid’s booming laugh would have drowned them right out if they did.

Rosie started, jaw fallen as she stared at Elaine. “Well! _Really_! If that—isn’t the rudest—”

“You’re the one who married Gregory Goyle, not me.” Elaine shrugged. “You should have known you’d be getting a lot more visits from my people when that happened.”

“Why—I—I should—” Rosie started to snap her fingers. “Identification! At once! Or else I won’t be letting either of these students leave with you!”

Rolling her eyes, Elaine tossed her identification to Rosie. Rosie squawked and ducked out of the way. Elaine fished her wand out of her pocket and floated the badge and identification in front of her face.

“Hmm,” Rosie said, surveying the identification with narrowed eyes and every appearance of thoroughness. “This is only a work badge … do you happen to have—”

“It was good enough fer Filius, Rosie.” Hagrid’s voice rumbled deeply enough to shake the floorboards. “An’ it was good enough fer me. Yeh can keep Vivianne back if it’s not good enough fer yeh, but Elaine’ll still leave with Rowan.”

“Well—I suppose it’ll do.” Rosie waved the identification away from her. Elaine couldn’t quite help letting it dangle in her face for a few more seconds, watching Rosie get more frustrated, until she remembered how childish the game was and brought her wallet back to her with a single flick of her wand.

“And,” Rosie went on, “I will have you know that my solicitor will be hearing about this! You are supposed to give a warning before you commence questioning!”

Elaine rolled her eyes. “Rosie, if you want to help your solicitor buy a second – or third – or even fourth yacht at this point, be my guest. But if you think that I’m getting disciplined at work for asking how your family is, you have another think coming.” She glanced at her watch. “Anyway, I need to be getting these girls off.”

Rosie’s only answer to that was to turn to Vivianne. “Vivianne darling, if you don’t want to leave with her, I can always take you when I go to the service tomorrow—”

“I’m going.” Elaine almost jumped, even if she should have been expecting it. The voice was younger – so much younger – but it could have been her mother speaking. “Thank you, Professor, but I just want to go home.”

“Certainly, Vivianne darling.” Rosie patted Vivianne’s shoulder. She glared at Elaine. “If I hear one word about you giving this girl a hard time—”

Elaine’s nostrils flared and she drew Rowan closer to her. “If you hear a word about me giving _my own niece_ a hard time, I suggest you keep it yourself before you hear quite a few words about the hard time you give _my daughter_.”

“Humph!” Rosie must have thought that was having the last word, because she turned on her heel and stormed out, slamming – or trying to slam – the door behind her. It didn’t work very well, what with the wind catching the door and making Rosie having to struggle to close it.

“Merlin, she’s just as bad as I remember her,” Elaine muttered. Then she glanced at Vivianne, who was staring at the floor. “Sorry.”

Vivianne looked up. Her face was carefully blank – Gorlois-blank, Elaine thought of it. She shrugged. “I’m hardly offended.”

That told Elaine more than she needed to know, really.

“Well, girls – let’s get this show on the road. So to speak,” she said to Vivianne’s confused expression. “Hagrid, thanks again for hosting us.”

“No trouble, Elaine. Sorry ter hear about yer grandma, girls,” he added to Rowan and Vivianne.”

“Th-thanks, Hagrid,” Rowan answered. Vivianne nodded with a small smile.

Elaine shepherded the girls to the fireplace. “It’s Caer Tintagel,” she said for Rowan’s sake. Rowan nodded.

Vivianne went first, and Elaine shooed Rowan through next. Only when the green flames fully disappeared behind her daughter did Elaine follow.

When she came out the fireplace at the other end, Vivianne had already disappeared, probably to put her valise away or find her mother or … something. Rowan stood alone in the huge parlor, craning her neck and looking from side to side and back again.

Elaine tried to see the place with a newcomer’s eyes – but after so many years and so many memories, it was too much.

“M-M-Mum …” Rowan started.

“I know,” Elaine said, even if she didn’t. She put an arm around Rowan’s shoulder. “Welcome to Caer Tintagel, sweet.” She sighed. “Home sweet bloody home.”

* * *

Caer Tintagel, as it turned out, was a castle.

It wasn’t as big as Hogwarts – but Hogwarts was a school created to house up to one thousand students as well teachers, staff, and house-elves to support them all. When Rowan considered that Caer Tintagel was home to only three – well, two – well, now only _one_ person during the school year – it made the place seem even more enormous than Hogwarts.

And while Hogwarts wore its age proudly with flagstone floors and stacked stone walls, Caer Tintagel seemed to want to show off every age. Every room Rowan poked her head into seemed to be decorated according to a different period. Many of the floors were hardwood or covered in expensive oriental rugs. (Rowan called them oriental rugs. In truth they could have been rugs from just about any time or place. But she would lay odds on each and every one of them being expensive.) Instead of guttering torches, the halls were lit by smooth white candles or oil lamps. Every small table seemed to be studded with priceless antiques.

Rowan walked very carefully, hands at her sides, fearful to touch or even breathe on anything. She would surely spend the rest of her life working to replace anything she broke.

And she got lost three different times. She’d tried to ask portraits for directions – they were so helpful at Hogwarts – but she discovered very quickly that if she spoke to any portrait younger than, say, the sixteen hundreds, she would get a dirty look and a spat, “Half-blood!”

_And here Mum told me that Gorloises didn’t have as much of a problem with Muggle-borns and half-bloods …_

But Rowan did make her way to the dining room by the time dinner was due to be served – which was at seven. She managed to get there with five minutes to spare and felt very proud of herself.

Then she opened the doors.

The dining hall was … Rowan’s mind didn’t want to come up with a suitable word. Majestic? Palatial? Immense?

It was tall, to start with – easily two stories, maybe more, with a high vaulted ceiling. The first story was paneled in carved chestnut wood, the second painted a warm cream. The floor was polished to a mirror shine – for a moment Rowan envied Vivianne all the afternoons she must have spent sliding across it.

And it was startlingly empty. There was a single long table, made of polished, honey-gold wood, with more chairs around it than Rowan cared to count. Most of them were elegant honey-gold with brocaded cream cushions, but at the far end, by the massive fireplace, was a chair so large and heavily carved that Rowan didn’t want to call it a chair. It was a throne, even bigger than the headmaster’s chair at Hogwarts.

There was more than just the table and chairs – china cabinets, decorative tables with vases filled with fall flowers, even a suit of armor that looked like something a centaur might wear – but it was obvious that the hall could hold still more. The Gorloises could probably fit half of Hogwarts in the dining room if they really wanted to.

She might have gaped for a long time, but a sniff broke her reverie. “ _That’s_ what you’re wearing to dinner?”

Rowan looked down the absurd length of the table to Aunt Josie. It was easy to recognize her – Rowan hadn’t even needed to be introduced. She was tall, amethyst-eyed, with glossy black hair and the kind of figure that women everywhere envied. And she had the same aristocratic features that Vivianne and Elaine shared. Even if Rowan hadn’t seen pictures from when Aunt Josie was young, she would have been able to place her from that alone.

The expression, however, was pure Professor Yaxley. Rowan didn’t think she’d seen her smile once. She wondered what had happened to the laughing little sister Elaine always pointed out in her old photos.

She wasn’t going to ask.

“Um …” Rowan swallowed and looked down. She’d thought she had done well. Her jumper was sky blue with bell-like sleeves. The neckline came down in a soft V that was offset by the white camisole underneath.

Were the jeans the problem? Her mother had told her to pack dress robes for tomorrow, but she hadn’t said anything about tonight …

Rowan glanced at Aunt Josie and Vivianne. Aunt Josie wore a sleeveless purple-and-black dress that barely reached her knees and had a sort of cape on the back, paired with purple high heels that looked, to Rowan’s untrained eye, like dragon skin. Her hair was swept into an elegant confection of curls that put Rowan in mind of a Regency painting or a Jane Austen movie. Vivianne was in a forest green wrap dress with black stockings and green wedges. She’d put her hair into an understated knot that somehow managed to look more elegant than even Aunt Josie’s hairdo – not that Rowan would ever say so out loud, and certainly not in Aunt Josie’s hearing.

“I d-d-didn’t know w-w-we were s-s-supposed to d-d-dress for d-d-dinner …” Rowan started.

“We’re not,” Elaine replied. “Not when it’s just family.” To Rowan’s relief, she saw that Elaine hadn’t changed out of what she had been wearing when she picked them up. “And Rowan, you look lovely, as always. Are those shoes new?”

Rowan glanced down at her black flats, each graced with a black sequin-studded bow. “Um—I g-g-got them with the b-b-birthday m-money Aunt Angie g-gave to m-m-me – so s-s-sort of?”

When Rowan looked up, the first thing she noticed was that Vivianne had leaned forward and was surveying Rowan’s shoes. What she thought of them, however, would take a wiser head than Rowan’s to figure out.

“Well, they look very nice. You have good taste, sweet. Now come on.” Elaine waved Rowan down to the seat next to hers. “Let’s eat.”

They all sat. Rowan took one look at the bone china plates and delicate crystal glasses and decided that she didn’t care _how_ rude it made her feel – she was not going to offer to help clear the table.

No sooner had they sat down than the house-elf – Ettie, her name was Ettie – came scampering into the room. When she snapped her fingers, each of their bowls filled with soup.

Even after five years of watching food magically appear on the groaning tables at Hogwarts, this was impressive.

As Rowan started to eat – concentrating on not clinking her spoon against the bowl – Aunt Josie uncorked the wine and filled her glass. “Vivianne?” she asked, holding the wine toward Vivianne.

Vivianne shook her head “No, thank you, Mother.”

They were the first words Rowan had heard out of her since they left Hagrid’s hut.

“As you will,” Aunt Josie replied. “And not a word out of you.” She glared at Elaine. “Mother lets— _let_ Vivianne have wine from time to time. It’s better to get a head for it here, where she’s supervised, than to try to do it at some wild party with no adults in sight.”

“Sensible,” Elaine replied. “Though honestly, Vivianne’s drinking isn’t the drinking I’m worried about.”

Aunt Josie paused midway through putting the wine back on the table to glare. “You have no right to judge me.”

“Who said anything about judging?” Elaine asked.

That was the last any of them said through the soup course. A salmon dish appeared next. Rowan saw Vivianne start a little when she saw it, then smile.

If there was a mystery, Aunt Josie soon cleared it up. “Aww, look, Vivi dear. Ettie made your favorite.”

 “She did,” Vivianne echoed.

When Rowan took a bite, she saw why it was Vivianne’s favorite. She waited only to swallow before she turned to the house-elf. “This—this is v-v-very g-g-good, Ettie. Thank y-you.”

Ettie blinked, her tennis-ball eyes growing even wider, before she grinned.

But Aunt Josie was glaring – first at Rowan, then at Elaine. “ _Really_ , Elaine! What kind of manners are you teaching this girl?”

_What did I do?_ Rowan wondered. She glanced at Vivianne, but even Vivianne was shooting her mother a confused look.

Elaine, however, was looking at the ceiling – probably asking for strength, or knowing Elaine, patience. “Josie, in the real world, it is not rude to compliment the meal or the chef.” She looked back to her sister. “And whatever Mother said about formal dinners, I know for a fact that she never had a problem with us complimenting the house-elf when it was just us at home.”

“But she’s not at home, is she?” Aunt Josie asked, giving a brittle smile and taking a long drink of her wine.

“Trust me, I’m aware of that,” Elaine sighed. “So, girls,” she said, turning to Rowan – and Vivianne. “We’re still trying to find the last few good photos for – well, for tomorrow. Do you want to help? Rowan, I found lots of photos of Granddad; maybe you’d want to have a look?”

“S-s-sure, M-M-Mum,” Rowan replied.

“Speak clearly,” Aunt Josie said. “Enunciate. You certainly shan’t get anywhere in this world with a stutter like that.” She glanced at Elaine. “Was she hit with a Tongue-Tying Curse when she was young?”

Rowan wanted to crawl under the table, but she was too busy watching her mother’s grip on her fork tighten. “Josie …”

“What? I’m just trying to help.” Josie snorted and tossed her head like a filly. “I mean, really. Rosie tells me that the girl wants to be a _Healer_ , of all things. Do you think she’s going to be able to talk to patients c-c-constantly s-s-stuttering her w-w-words?”

“ _Josie—_ ”

There was a clatter – Vivianne’s fork dropping to her plate.

Everyone’s eyes turned to her, especially when Vivianne brought a hand up to her temple. Rowan watched as she took one deep breath – two – three.

Then Vivianne seemed to give up, almost slamming her napkin down on the table as she stood up. “I’m going to bed.”

“What? Oh, Vivi darling, you’ve barely touched your dinner!” Josie gasped. “What’s the matter? Are you not feeling well?”

Vivianne just shook her head. “Good night, Mother – Aunt Elaine – Rowan. I’ll see you all – in the morning.”

And she left. Somehow she managed to seem not to hurry even as she crossed the long parquet floor in much less time than it ought to have taken.

She opened the doors at the end of the hall, and they boomed shut behind her.

“Well,” Aunt Josie sniffed as soon as Vivianne was gone. “I hope you’re happy, Elaine. Driving off a grieving girl like that.”

“Josie …” Elaine sighed and shook her head. “Never mind. Think what you want; Merlin knows I’ll never convince you otherwise.”

As for Rowan, she ducked her head and resolved not to speak another word until dinner was over.

* * *

Vivianne’s bedroom was not a bedroom at all, but rather a suite in one of the towers. When she escaped the dining room, she went up there and locked the door. She wanted to take a bubble bath, but she’d left her favorite bubbling potion back at Hogwarts, and when she realized that, the whole operation seemed like too much effort.

She put on her nightgown, wrapped herself in a dressing gown, and took a seat in her sitting room instead. The large windows faced the sea, and it was a clear night.

Vivianne watched the stars and their reflection in the water and let her mind go blank. Her fingers numbly and automatically plaited her hair.

She didn’t know how long she sat there. She might have fallen asleep. But a knock at her door brought her back to the real world – little as she might want to come.

“What?” Vivianne snapped.

Silence for a second. Then, quietly, “V-V-Vivianne? Um—Ettie m-made f-f-fruit t-t-trifle for d-d-dessert—your m-m-mum m-mentioned that it’s y-your f-f-favorite—um—I b-b-brought s-some up, I c-c-can l-leave it here, or …”

That, Vivianne thought, had to be the longest, most rambling way for Rowan to announce that she’d brought dessert up if Vivianne wanted it.

_… Rowan brought me dessert?_

Almost before Vivianne realized what she was doing, she crossed the room and opened the door. She wasn’t sure who was more surprised by that, herself or Rowan.

“Oh—um—h-hi.” Rowan lifted up the silver tray, showing that it did, indeed, have a large serving of fruit trifle on it, along with a fork and napkins and even a teapot and teacup. “F-f-fruit t-t-trifle?”

“How on earth did you get that all the way up here without spilling it all over yourself?” Vivianne asked before she thought better of it.

But Rowan didn’t seem to be offended. “V-v-very c-c-carefully,” she said with a shrug.

It was as good as answer as any. “Here—I’ll take it,” she said, suiting the action to the world. “And you can come in, if you like,” Vivianne added. “I’ll never finish all of this by myself, and leaving Ettie’s fruit trifle on the plate is a crime against cookery.”

“O-okay,” Rowan replied. Vivianne heard her close the door behind her.

_Now why the hell did you do that, Vivianne?_ she wondered. _Now you have to talk to …_

_… The only person in this castle whose company you can stand at this moment …_

_Well, human. Ettie would probably be all right._

Vivianne put the tray down on the coffee table and glanced behind her, to where Rowan was still standing by the door and … gaping. _Oh, Merlin._ “Well, have a seat,” Vivianne said. “The furniture won’t bite.”

Rowan swallowed and perched on the armchair next to Vivianne’s sofa. “This—this is y-y-your b-b-bedroom?”

“No,” Vivianne replied. She pointed at the door to her left, directly across from the door that led out from the tower. “That’s my bedroom. And the restroom and dressing room are behind me.”

“… Oh,” Rowan said softly. “And I thought m-m-my room at M-M-Mum’s c-c-cottage was b-b-big.”

“You thought your bedroom in a cottage was big?” Vivianne raised an eyebrow. “Compared to what?”

“Well, my r-r-room in D-D-Dad’s f-flat in L-London, f-for one,” Rowan said with a shrug.

“Oh,” Vivianne replied. _Her father lives in London?_ She’d always wanted to spend more time in London … she only ever seen Diagon Alley and the few wizarding outposts in London, like the British Museum of Magic and Arcana—

_That_ thought led her places she didn’t want to go, so Vivianne pulled back, trying to find something – anything – else to focus on.

“Thank you, by the way,” Vivianne said. “For the trifle. And I meant what I said about sharing.” She picked up the fork and stabbed a bit of the trifle. “I’m not going to finish this by myself.”

“Okay—well, th-thanks. Um. D-d-do y-you h-have extra f-f-forks up here?”

“What? Oh.” Vivianne reached for her wand and pointed it at the fork, concentrating. “ _Gemino_. Here you go.” She handed the extra fork to Rowan, feeling rather smugly proud of herself for managing that so easily.

“Th-thanks,” Rowan replied. She took a much smaller bite of the trifle than Vivianne had taken. “I g-g-guess one g-g-good t-t-turn really d-d-does d-deserve another.”

Vivianne paused, raising an eyebrow at Rowan. “… Such as?”

“Oh. Um …” Rowan pushed her hair back from her face, both sides, almost compulsively. If getting her hair – not that she had that _much_ of it; it was barely shoulder-length – but if getting it into her face bothered her so much, Rowan ought to invest in a headband. “I—uh—j-j-just n-n-never g-g-got a ch-chance to th-thank you. F-f-for—H-Hogsmeade.” Rowan looked up with a small smile. “S-s-so—th-thank you.”

Vivianne’s eye narrowed. “And you know about that how?”

“My f-f-friends t-told m-me,” Rowan shrugged.

“Did they,” Vivianne muttered. “I suppose there’s a reason the saying is ‘a little bird told me.’”

“I d-d-didn’t th-think it was a s-s-secret,” Rowan answered. “I m-m-mean—I c-c-can’t b-b-blow y-you in without b-blowing them in.”

“I suppose that’s true. Anyway,” Vivianne flipped one of her braids over her shoulder, “don’t think anything of it. I simply found it … useful to help them.”

“ _Useful_?” Rowan asked, and Vivianne wasn’t sure what was more surprising: that she had asked or that she managed to do it without stuttering.

Vivianne’s mouth opened to reply – and she shut it again. Why should she let _Rowan_ of all people know about her suspicions? What good could that possibly accomplish?

_But how could it hurt?_

She took another forkful of trifle and forced herself to shrug. “Well … it didn’t escape my notice that Monsieur Bellerose turned his attention to you almost immediately after someone dosed me with love potion. Perhaps I’m paranoid – but that’s a bit too much ‘coincidence’ for me to swallow.”

She addressed herself to the trifle, waiting for a reply.

The reply didn’t come.

Vivianne looked up.

Rowan stared at her, her eyes – already abnormally large-looking behind those glasses – as big as a house-elf’s. “Y-y-you—y-y-you think it’s c-c-connected? Mr. B-B-Bellerose—and y-y-you—and _m-m-me_?”

“Stranger things have happened.” Vivianne shrugged. “It’s not as if people don’t know you’re my cousin. If—if Monsieur Bellerose was attempting to move against our family—you’re certainly an easier target for him to get to than Snow or Ana.”

“W-who? Oh,” Rowan murmured. “Th-those—those are the other t-t-two G-Gorlois girls at s-s-school?”

Vivianne nodded.

She thought that might be an end of it. She was wrong. “B-b-but—w-w-wait—if—if c-c-creeping on m-m-me—and d-d-dosing y-y-you—is all p-p-part of the s-s-same plan—why not j-just d-d-dose _me_?”

Vivianne snorted. “Probably because he doesn’t want to get vomited on again. Can’t say I blame him.” Then she frowned. “Not that you would.”

“Oh, p-p-please. I’m n-n-not _th-that_ n-nice.”

“No, no,” Vivianne waved her hand – her fork, technically – and shook her head. “Nice has nothing to do with it. You wouldn’t have the same reaction.”

“How d-d-do you kn-know?” Rowan challenged. “What—M-M-Madam P-P-Pomfrey s-s-said it w-was an allergy. M-m-maybe I h-have it t-t-too.” She frowned. “N-n-not that I’m g-g-going to go t-t-testing that p-p-proposition …”

Vivianne snorted with a smile, remembered whom she was laughing at – well, with – and decided she didn’t care. She shook her head. “It’s not an allergy. It’s a protection of the clan. And you don’t have it.”

“… Huh?”

Vivianne looked up. Rowan was watching her with an expression of confusion that would have been comical if it wasn’t so pathetic. And – Vivianne hated to admit this – unexpected.

“A protection of the clan,” she repeated. “You know? The Gorlois clan?”

“I kn-know what the G-G-Gorlois c-c-clan is,” Rowan repeated slowly, “b-b-but b-beyond that—I h-have n-n-no idea w-what you’re t-t-talking about.”

Vivianne’s eyes widened. “Hasn’t your mother told you _anything_?”

“N-n-no?” Rowan shrugged. “She—she d-d-doesn’t l-l-like t-t-talking about y-you l-l-lot. Especially after your g-g-grandmother k-k-kicked her out.”

“Grandmother didn’t _kick her out_ ,” Vivianne replied, shaking her head.

And Rowan— _rolled her eyes_?

“She didn’t!” Vivianne protested.

“S-s-sure sh-she d-d-didn’t.”

“Do you think I’m lying to you?” Vivianne asked. “Grandmother did not _kick her out_. Your mother forfeited the protections of the clan of her own free will by … well, marrying your father.”

Rowan snorted. “W-w-whatever y-y-you s-say, V-Vivianne.”

“I’m not—” Vivianne’s jaw fell, and she let her fork fall to the plate. “Merlin! What do I have to do to convince you? I can’t believe you think I’m lying to you!”

Rowan raised an eyebrow at Vivianne. Then her face grew cloudy, thoughtful. She glanced at the fire.

Vivianne watched her carefully – but Rowan, in her way, had almost as good a poker face as a true Gorlois woman. Vivianne could tell _that_ she was thinking, but _what_ she was thinking.

Finally Rowan spoke. “It’s n-n-not that I th-think you’re _l-lying_ – j-j-just – that y-y-you wouldn’t s-s-see what your g-g-grandmother and all of the r-rest of y-you d-d-did to M-Mum as k-k-kicking her out. I m-m-mean – y-you’re n-n-not the only p-p-pureblood f-family that thinks M-M-Muggles are s-s-scum – and if it was easier t-t-to c-c-convince y-you l-l-lot that y-you were wrong – there p-p-probably w-w-wouldn’t have b-b-been as m-many p-p-people who d-d-died in the w-w-war.”

Vivianne’s jaw fell. Of all the things she would have expected from this weekend … being blamed – well, indirectly blamed – for a sizeable proportion of the casualties of the last war …

“It’s – it’s more complicated than your mother has told you,” Vivianne replied. “I mean it.”

She expected Rowan to dismiss her again. But perhaps something in what she said got through. Rowan turned back to her with a skeptical frown and narrowed eyes. “O-okay … h-how, th-then?”

Vivianne blinked. But what would the harm be in telling? Maybe if Rowan knew …

Well, it wouldn’t _change_ anything. But the Gorloises hadn’t gotten to where they were by allowing enemies to nurse ill-founded grudges without at least attempting to clear the air.

“The clan has an agreement with the Ministry,” Vivianne started, and upon seeing Rowan’s confused expression, realized she would have to go back a bit farther.

“The—the Gorloises usually didn’t marry Muggles,” she said, “even before—well—even before it became fashionable not to. But you have to understand, it wasn’t about prejudice. It was about property. It was one thing when the Saxons ruled England – women had some property rights back then – but the Normans? They saw a wife as the chattel of her husband.” Vivianne shook her head.

She watched as Rowan’s eyes narrowed. “O-okay …”

“But wizards and witches mostly ignored that,” Vivianne went on. “A wizard had a better chance of respecting a witch’s property rights – the property she brought into the marriage. She’d turn him into a newt if he didn’t, and they both knew that. Muggles … could be a bit thicker about that kind of thing.”

Rowan still looked skeptical.

“But—but even though we _tended_ not to—it still happened. There was one – Guinevere Isolde – in the fifteen hundreds, who married a wealthy Muggle lord in Lincolnshire. This was—I forget the year—but during the reign of Henry VIII. They were happy enough, for a time – they had children together – and then there was a plague or a disease of some kind, and their only son – at the time, they would have another son not long after – died.

“Guinevere’s husband turned against her. Grandmother—she told me the story—she told me that Guinevere was able to use her magic to save her daughters, but she couldn’t save her son. Grandmother thinks—er, thought—it was because she was pregnant, and _she_ fell sick at about the same time as her son. But it doesn’t really matter,” Vivianne shrugged, “the point was—Guinevere’s husband was bitter—he allowed himself to be persuaded by his priest that the reason he lost his son was because of Guinevere’s magic. So after … I think it was about a year … he sprung a trap on her, confiscated her wand, and turned her over to authorities as a witch.” Vivianne stared at the trifle. “She was executed before she could get word to her family about what had happened.”

Rowan gasped. “W-w-wait— _w-what?_ He had his w-w-wife—k-k-killed?”

Vivianne shrugged. “He did. But he was a fool—because he forgot that his wife actually was a witch. A witch from a long line of powerful witches, with a clan that stretched across the country.”

And Vivianne smiled.

Rowan’s face fell. “What—w-w-what did the G-Gorloises d-d-do?”

 “What practically anyone with the courage and the ability would have done,” Vivianne answered. “Guinevere Isolde was the Matriarch’s daughter, you see. So the Matriarch gathered the clan, and together they flew to Lincolnshire. They rescued Guinevere’s children first – all of them, daughters and son – and then …”

Vivianne felt her voice grow lower. “They showed the world why only a very, very great fool dares to cross a Gorlois woman. They burned the manor house down – slew most of the adults inside – and made sure that Guinevere’s husband, that meddling priest, and the judge who condemned her to death died the same way she did.”

Rowan gasped. “Oh my— _M-Merlin_! That’s _awful_!”

Vivianne glared. “Really?” she asked. “Really? You feel sorry for the _Muggles_? They bloody started it. You play with fire, you get burned.”

“B-b-but—even if you c-c-can j-justify the husband and the p-p-priest and the j-judge—and I’m n-n-not sure you c-c-can—w-what about all the other p-p-people in the m-manor? The s-servants and the—”

“It sent a message,” Vivianne interrupted. “It showed that the Gorloises were not to be trifled with. And it was the bloody fifteen hundreds – literally.” Vivianne shrugged. “Life was cheap back then. Most Muggles wouldn’t have blinked at the chance to raze their enemy’s house and kill all his retainers if they could get away with it.”

“That d-d-doesn’t m-make it r-r-right,” Rowan replied.

“I honestly don’t think right and wrong had much to do with it.” Vivianne rolled her eyes. “But – getting back to the story – the Wizards’ Council had a bit of a problem when word got out. Because, of course, a clan of witches descending from the sky and raining down fire and death on Muggles – that’s the sort of thing that can lead to witch hunts all over the country. At the same time, they couldn’t come down too hard on the Gorloises, because there were plenty of wizards and witches who supported everything they had done and who were clamoring for more. So they compromised. They managed to pass off the Gorlois clan’s actions as part of the Lincolnshire Rising – that was a precursor to the Pilgrimage of Grace – and they promised the Gorloises would let this particular attack slide, but any other Gorlois woman who put herself in danger by marrying a Muggle would forfeit the protections of the clan automatically.” Vivianne shrugged. “They signed a magical contract … and, well, that was that.”

“Th-that w-w-was th-that,” Rowan repeated, though mostly to herself, frowning. “B-b-but – that w-w-was over f-f-four hundred years ago …”

“And your mother was the first to marry a Muggle in all that time.”

“W-w-we d-d-don’t even h-have a W-Wizard’s C-Council anymore.”

“The Ministry was heir to all of their agreements, laws, etc.,” Vivianne answered. “Binns went over _that_ in first year, Rowan.”

“S-s-so … b-b-because of an agreement s-s-signed four hundred y-y-years ago – that’s it? N-no Gorlois woman c-c-can ever m-marry a M-Muggle? Even though t-t-times have ch-changed and we have the International S-S-Statute of S-S-Secrecy and n-n-nobody is hunting w-w-witches anymore?” Rowan pressed.

Vivianne didn’t know why, but she shifted slightly under the onslaught. “Well … I mean … technically, I suppose it could be re-negotiated. I mean, magical contracts _can_ be re-negotiated, as long as both parties freely agree to do so …”

“S-s-so M-Mum d-d-did get k-k-kicked out of the f-f-family,” Rowan pointed out. “B-b-because – your g-g-grandmother c-c-could have ch-changed that c-c-contract, b-b-but she d-d-didn’t.”

“Well, yes, but it’s not that simple …” Vivianne started, then trailed off.

Rowan was raising an eyebrow at her. She didn’t understand it. Her tiny, stuttering, hapless half-blood cousin was just _looking_ at her, and …

Vivianne was the first to look away. “Grandmother had to think of the whole clan,” she murmured. “Not just your mother. Or … you.”

“M-Maybe,” Rowan replied. “B-b-but Ha—um—a f-f-friend of m-m-my m-m-mum’s—he s-s-said that Dumbledore once s-s-said that—that s-s-sometimes y-you have to ch-choose b-b-between what’s r-r-right and what’s easy. And … s-s-sometimes ch-choosing what’s r-r-right is w-w-worth the c-c-cost – b-b-because choosing what’s easy is j-j-just—s-s-so wrong.”

Vivianne’s eyes dropped to the fruit trifle, now reduced merely to crumbs on the plate. “Perhaps,” she admitted. “But even so – that assumes that one choice _is_ right – and that you can even tell the difference.”


	29. Chapter 28: We Had Seasons in the Sun

**Chapter 28: We Had Seasons in the Sun**

Everywhere one looked there were dark haired, gem-eyed women who all managed to look vaguely similar no matter how distantly related they were. Most of them were tall, but there were a few holding up the short solidarity, too. There was also a thick sprinkle of silver-haired, gem-eyed women, equally similar looking. It was not unlike someone had run about the room imperfectly casting duplication charms on the same three women. The room _also_ looked like a showing for designer black robes. The styling spanned from robes that would have been at home on a Gorlois woman at the very beginning of the implementation of the International Statute of Secrecy to the incredibly modern, straight off the catwalks.

If this whole thing hadn’t been depressing as frigging hell, Ragnell Morgause Gorlois thought to herself as she made her way through the champagne-sipping, hors-d’oeuvres-nibbling, lace-handkerchief-dabbing, black-hand-fan-waving mob looking for one specific tall, emerald-eyed Gorlois woman, she’d have been laughing. They were, without a single doubt, ridiculous. And Igraine would have been the first one to agree with her. Aunt Igraine. Her hand tightened around her own lace-trimmed black silk handkerchief, and she sighed, mostly to herself.

She remembered, peering through a break in the crowds at their next matriarch, the last time this had happened. Nell had been only a year younger than Vivianne Morgaine when Morgause Vivianne, Nell’s great-grandmother and Vivianne’s great-great grandmother, had passed. A respectable 93 years old, she had been the Dowager for eight years at that point, the title of Matriarch having passed to Aunt Igraine when Elaine Nimue had been born.

But there was still some worry as Igraine settled into the role wholly on her own. Even as far away from the hub as Nell had been, she had felt it. She had been one of the older – though not the eldest, that role had belonged to cousin Esslyte Elaine, Aunt Enid’s daughter – but one of the older Gorlois girls still at Hogwarts when she had passed. They’d all huddled together in the Slytherin common room when the letters had come.

She hadn’t known Morgause that well; as a great-grandmother and head of the sprawling, eclectic Gorlois clan, she’d not been particularly close to any of her grandchildren beyond Aunt Igraine, or any of her great-grandchildren, period, as none of them bore the mark of a future Gorlois matriarch. In fact, Nell’s strongest memory of Morgause Vivianne had been her own grandmother Dindrane Ragnell smacking the back of her hand with a wand for daring to wear a frock that showed her ankles to a formal Gorlois event while Morgause Vivianne nodded in agreement. It had been 1974, and the Muggles had been doing miniskirts and micromini skirts for nearly a decade at that point, showing off their calves, knees, and even upper thighs.

It was ridiculous, especially as her robes had been, by comparison, a nearly matronly flapper style with a tea-length hem.

Thankfully, Aunt Igraine had been more sensible than that. She believed, when Nell had done it again at Elaine’s coming of age party, that Igraine’s exact words were, “If even the Muggles are doing away with corporal punishment, we can as well. And I think we have far more important things to worry about besides.” That had been 1985, just a few short years after the end of the first wizarding war – and they had.

She hadn’t imagined at that point that she would be any closer to her Aunt Igraine than she had been to Great-Grandmother Morgause.

That had all changed in the early summer of 1992. The year before, Igraine had been in France, dealing with the pregnancy that had led to their new matriarch – even if Dindrane Rowena _insisted_ that Vivianne would _not_ take over, officially, as Matriarch until her coming of age in March. It was what Igraine would have wanted, what she was sure all of those contingency documents said through the legalese that Nell, quite frankly, didn’t have the patience for.

During that time, Nell’s headstrong cousin, Elaine, had taken it in her wild Gryffindor head to marry – and then proceed to get knocked up by – a Muggle. Gasp, the fans had _not_ stopped waving for months after that announcement. Hell, in some ways, they were still waving about it.

That meant – in no uncertain terms – that Elaine was no longer a Gorlois. Nell knew why – at least now she did, even if at the time it was only a vague history lesson she barely remembered – but then or now, it was still ridiculous, and Nell had violently disagreed. She had learned everything she could about the Lincolnshire Compact formed after that incident way back in 1536, had learned about other families who had formed compacts, most of which had been dissolved after the switch from Council to Ministry because they were usually damned inconvenient. The Council had usually known how to grab one by every short-hair they could get in their grasp. Then she had waited to corner her aunt at the next family gathering – ironically a wedding, though one between a distant cousin and a perfectly ordinary (for this family, anyway) young wizard of good standing.

The opportunity had availed itself, and Nell had planted herself in Aunt Igraine’s way. “Good afternoon, Aunt Igraine,” Nell had begun, lest her grandmother hear something of her manners, even though Nell had been a mother of three by that point and hardly needed to kowtow to her grandmother any longer. “I’m Ragnell Morgause.”

“Right. Anna Ganieda’s daughter.” Aunt Igraine had been ready to dismiss her with that.

Nell had nodded.

“And you’re wrong.”

That simple statement had changed _everything_ from there on forward. Igraine’s jaw had actually hung for a brief moment, and then she had asked what Nell meant. She had explained about Elaine, about how archaic the Lincolnshire Compact was, and how it was – quite frankly – stupid to bow to politics like that. In those years, before the return of the Dark Lord, back when the whole wizarding world had still believed they had been saved by an infant and the sacrifice of James and Lily Potter, even if some of those people with those repulsive tattoos were still around – some of them even sitting in the other room as she had explained her thoughts to Igraine in Klara Temperance’s library – it had seemed relatively black and white to Nell.

She hadn’t changed Aunt Igraine’s mind that day – at, least not about Elaine. But she had changed Igraine’s mind about Nell herself. The one final door in the Gorlois family – the only one those born with two eyes of the same shade could aspire to – had opened. She had become part of the Matriarch’s inner circle.

It was a fairly exclusive group, chosen by the Matriarch and usually changed at the point where Matriarch became Dowager – or as would be the case here and now, when one passed – but it generally held a similar make-up of positions.

The Keeper of the Book. Igraine had been her own keeper, but usually those two positions were not merged. The Gorlois Historie dated back to the founding of the Gorlois clan and was, even more than Caer Tintagel itself, the most priceless thing the Gorlois family could lay claim to.

The family solicitor. With a clan full of headstrong, stubborn women who refused to bow down to men – most of whom were current or former Slytherins by nature – there was going to be a legal problem or five. It made sense to have a solicitor as an adviser. And Aunt Dindrane, despite being conservative, usually had good advice for even the stickiest issues.

Usually – not always, but usually – if the matriarch had a sister, one would be found in that group – sometimes more than one – not always, though. Aunt Igraine had never explicitly stated why Aunt Enid was an adviser and Aunt Isolde was not; however, the fact that Isolde was as ruthless as she was racist might have had something to do with it.

And then there were the ones who were chosen for general usefulness or perspective. Nell was one of those, balanced out by the final member of the inner circle, Great-Aunt Laurelle Honour – a fiery, snarky, staunchly proper matriarch (small m) who was neck-deep in the conservative section of the family. Thankfully, despite her appalling views on half-bloods and Muggle-borns – and Merlin, don’t get her started on bloody _Muggles_ – she was at least not so conservative that she didn’t even believe in wearing knickers. She changed them regularly, even. Knowing Laurelle? They were probably spider silk with naughty panels or something. She was, after all – as she liked to remind them – old, but not dead.

“Nell, Nell! Would you like a drink?” a voice, a little slurred from one or two too many of those already, called from off to her right. Morgause Dindrane, known to most of the family as Josie, was sitting with her cousin Tearose. Rosie, of course, wasn’t a Gorlois and subtly resented every second of it. It was, perhaps, the only bit of subtlety the woman possessed, and if one was observant at all, it obviously rankled her that someone like Nell, whom one had to go back to old Morgause Vivianne to connect to the matriarch’s branch, and others who were further off even that that carried the Gorlois name. Meanwhile, she, the direct niece of the old Matriarch and the first-cousin-almost-like-a-sister to the mother of the new Matriarch, was a Yaxley.

She could have been a Goyle instead, but for some reason she had passed on taking her husband’s name. It had been Nell’s personal policy to not sleep with anyone she would have out and out objected to marrying. She might have passed time with a gent or two she was glad she hadn’t ended up marrying, but … Gregory Goyle was a _Goyle_ , and Rosie had gone to bed with him anyway. And now she was stuck. No one bought that “oh, Rosacea came early” line, no matter how much she attempted to sell it like a Muggle used auto salesman.

“The firewhisky’s over here,” Rosie attempted to whisper.

“That’s quite all right. I’m currently looking for someone,” Nell demurred. All of her children had had Rosie for a potions instructor, and two of them still did. Snow, her youngest –better known to the larger wizarding world as Guinevere Lynette – still had three and a half more years of Rosie’s tender mercies, thankfully tempered by the fact that she was a Slytherin. Jacob was nearly half through his seventh year and was relatively forgettable to Rosie as a Ravenclaw.

All of this Nell kept firmly in her mind as she talked herself out of walking over to Rosie and yanking the woman’s robes back into place. It was none of Nell’s business what Rosie was wearing under her robes, and other than Goyle’s, it shouldn’t have been _anyone_ in this room’s business. And Nell was only thirteen years older than Rosie was. It wasn’t like she was all _that_ prim. Maybe she could get Laurelle over here.

“Who’re you looking for?” Josie asked, tipping back the bottle of firewhisky, not even bothering with a tumbler.

“Your sister.”

Josie sputtered and choked, sitting bolt upright. Knowing what Josie was probably thinking, but hoping to stave it off before she could get drunkenly slurred at further, Nell sighed.

“It’s something I promised your mother I would do—not something I’m doing by choice.” It was more complicated than that. But these two drunken fools didn’t need to know that.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Rosie said. “Are you sure you don’t want a drink—help steady your nerves ‘fore you go o’er there?”

“Maybe afterward.” _Like when I get home and the only person I have to worry about making a drunken fool out of myself in front of is Harvey._ Three of her children – Jacob, Snow, and her eldest, Derek – were staying with her and Harvey for the funeral, at least until tomorrow morning, when she’d return the younger two to Hogwarts. Derek, who had come in from Ireland, would stay until tomorrow evening before heading home in time to make it to work on Monday. Elle was staying in her own flat – or more than likely, staying at Bruce’s – but Nell was still pretending that she didn’t know about that because Elle was still pretending that Nell hadn’t figured it out.

But she wouldn’t get drunk until she was nearly positive that the kids wouldn’t see her.

Rosie’s daughter would be in the room set up for the children. Anyone who was old enough to be at Hogwarts could come and go from there, but the younger children, for the most part, would find nothing of interest in this part of the reception. Hell, if Nell remembered her own childhood, even the food had been better there. It had been fun and tasty. This stuff was fussy and sometimes unrecognizable beyond foreign and posh.

But poor Vivianne was right over there – having interference run by Laurelle and Dindrane. Still, she had to know what her mother was up to. She was neither blind nor stupid, and she had already accepted more responsibility by the time they’d buried Perseus than Josie still had.

The crowds shifted – just a little – and Nell saw Elaine off on the other side of the room. She melted back into the crowd, thankful that her small stature allowed her to become lost in the sea of her taller relatives.

Elaine hadn’t fundamentally changed her look, beyond the classic glossy black hair, blown out into a vaguely retro look to be pinned to no identifiable year. Either she’d forgone a hat – or, no – Nell would guess that wide-brimmed floppy black thing tossed on an empty chair next to Rowan was Elaine’s; it didn’t seem like something Rowan would wear. Elaine’s robes were cut in a daring V-neck with a slightly up-pointing waist and shimmered lightly when she moved. The hem was floaty and ethereal, but Nell would have bet money that Elaine could have flown Chaser in the whole ensemble without trouble.

Her daughter obviously didn’t take after her mother in looks, but there might have been a bit of Perseus, if Nell remembered him correctly. She wore a cute little coat dress in a black, twilight lavender, and subdued gray tartan over knee-high black boots with only a sliver of a wedge heel. Her blonde hair, not at all usual for one of the Gorlois line, was held back with a black velvet headband with a bow set ever so slightly off center; it would have driven Aunt Igraine nuts.

“Elaine,” Nell said, when she got within speaking range, but not so close as to feel threatening. Not that tiny little Nell was all that threatening; still, it never hurt to be cautious.

“Ragnell,” Elaine said, inclining her head with a regal tilt that was her mother all over again. “Rowan, you remember my telling you about my cousin Ragnell, I think?”

“Y-y-yes, M-M-Mum,” Rowan stammered out.

“This is my daughter, Rowan,” Elaine introduced.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Rowan,” Nell said, inclining her head toward Rowan.

“Finally?” Elaine’s voice was suspicious.

“Oh, yes, my boys have been mentioning Rowan for years. Derek was one of Ravenclaw’s prefects when she was sorted, and Jacob’s excited that Rowan’s also planning on becoming a Healer.” Nell smiled.

“J-J-Jacob?” Rowan frowned.

“Pritchard, seventh-year, also a Ravenclaw?” Nell offered.

“Oh—I didn’t realize,” Rowan muttered.

“Yeah, we get all caught up in the girly side of the clan and forget the boys half the time.” Nell’s smile was ironic, given how often in history – especially Muggle history – that the obsession had been with the male side of the family and the girls were near forgotten.

“What do you want, Nell?” Elaine asked, her eyes narrowed slightly. Well, Nell couldn’t blame her; she supposed if she had been estranged from her mother and one of Anna’s friends had approached her at her funeral, she’d have felt justifiable suspicion, too.

“I need to speak with Rowan—in the library.” Elaine was not going to like this next part, but it had to be said – and done. “Unfortunately, alone.”

If Elaine had been a Crup, you’d have seen her hackles rising; you _could_ see the way her eyes narrowed and suspicion splayed across her face.

“What do you mean, you need to see my daughter _alone_?” Elaine practically snarled it at Nell. Nell understood; Merlin, she could only guess what Elaine was going through, especially watching some of the – well – idiots and the way they had treated Elaine all day. Estranged or not, Igraine had been Elaine’s mother. So suspicion was normal, healthy even.

For her part, Nell simply looked at her cousin. Saying nothing, doing nothing, not even a quirked eyebrow. Letting Elaine remember – if she could – who Nell was and what she had stood for and how terribly unlikely it was for her to ask Rowan to the library to hex her or something. She could have done that right here and no one would have even blinked, except maybe over the fact that Nell was the one to do it.

Elaine finally sighed. “Why?”

“If I could tell you why, I wouldn’t need to talk to her alone. I gave _my word_ to your mother that I would see something through if, Merlin forbade, exactly this happened and she couldn’t do it herself. For what it’s worth,” Nell looked straight into Elaine’s eyes, even though the younger woman had seven inches on her, “I will give you _mine_ that I will not raise a wand against your daughter. Come off it, Elaine; I have better things to do than hex teenagers in the library. And your mother wouldn’t have been so childish as to expect it of me.” She could have mentioned any number of things at that point. But whatever Elaine called herself on paper, she was a Gorlois woman, and there were certain things every Gorlois woman knew. The very first of those was that a Gorlois woman rarely “gave her word,” and it was never done lightly. Between two Gorlois women, it was nearly as unbreakable as a vow.

“Might I at least accompany you to the library?” Elaine finally asked.

“So I don’t hex her anyway and just leave her there? If it makes you feel better, then certainly.” _However, if that’s what you’re expecting, then you are certain to be wasting your time,_ Nell added mentally before leading the way to the doors. Elaine parked herself at the door, to which Nell said nothing. She simply opened the door and waved the teenager inside.

“Come with me,” Nell told Rowan, leading her to a panel marked with a sigil. Nell spoke a few words, an old nursery rhyme that dated back to the founding of their family. The wall flashed with runes glowing an eerie purpley-black color before the panel melted away, revealing a single book on a stand. An envelope, Rowan’s name written in Aunt Igraine’s familiar handwriting, was propped up against the foot of the stand.

Nell grabbed the envelope and handed it to Rowan, who took it, eyes very wide. Whether that was at the spellwork worked into that panel or if that was at the idea of a letter for her being worth hiding in such a place, Nell didn’t know and wouldn’t bother to guess.

She also removed the book from its place, replacing it with a short note, a contingency if things went pear-shaped and she couldn’t talk with Vivianne in person about the book. Vivianne couldn’t keep the book – she was not its Keeper – but the book was valuable and powerful. It knew absolutely everything there was to know about the Gorloises – and Vivianne wouldn’t be a Slytherin if she could just let that power go.

There was a note from Igraine in “their secret place” for Vivianne about the book and why she had chosen not to give it to Vivianne, though somehow Nell doubted it said _why_ the book was going to Rowan, specifically.

Rowan read the letter, twice if Nell was any judge, before looking at her.

“This is the Gorlois Family Historie,” Nell said formally. “The Keeper of this book bears a great responsibility and a burden nearly as great. By the word of the former Keeper and family Matriarch and by my hand, it passes to you, Rowan Igraine O’Blake.” She held the book out to Rowan, who looked it over, touching the cover gingerly, but made no effort to take it from Nell. Her eyes were huge behind her thick spectacles.

“B-but, s-s-she didn’t even want me. Why would she want me to have this?” Rowan asked in an almost pained tone.

“I wish I could tell you, kiddo,” Nell sighed. “Aunt Igraine said it would always know where it needed to go. And she’s known for years it was going to you. Beyond that, though, the only person who might’ve been able to answer that question … was Aunt Igraine.” Rowan took the book finally and looked at it then back at Nell. “I don’t know how much _we_ could help you, Dindrane, Enid, and I, the book is more than a shade esoteric, but if you need to ask questions, we’ll answer them. Laurelle would probably answer your questions too, out of respect for Igraine, but …” Nell trailed off for effect. Rowan nodded solemnly. “One last trick. You heard that rhyme I said?”

Rowan nodded.

“Can you say that last line?”

Rowan frowned in concentration and recited it back to Nell, and the book shimmered before disappearing from view. It was still in Rowan’s hands – she knew by the way Rowan stared at them, holding what seemed to be empty air in a tight grip.

“Just say it again to make it reappear. Now, we should probably head back out—before your mum bursts in fearing the worst. Though you should probably take that straight up to your room and put it in your luggage.” Rowan smiled, and Nell set the book to trailing after Rowan as they walked out of the room, so Elaine wouldn’t see the book that wasn’t there in Rowan’s hands. She’d more than likely be able to guess what it was, though who knew that Rowan had the book was no longer Nell’s responsibility. She had done what she had said she would.

Elaine was pacing fiercely outside the door, and the relief on her face when she saw Rowan was clear. “See, here’s your kid: all safe, sound, and unhexed.” Which got a chuckle out both Rowan and her mother.

“Paranoia is part of the job,” Elaine said by way of apology. “And, well, being here, like this …” She trailed off.

“I can’t say I entirely blame you.” _Which does not say I have to like it, though,_ Nell thought. Rowan excused herself to go to her room, and Nell headed back to the reception. She had earned her plate of fussy hors d’oeuvres and glass of overpriced vintage, duty now done.

* * *

A drink in the hand was more than a means of refreshment. It was armor. It was a way to buy time. It was a shield against having to talk, having to notice, having to be polite. The only thing it was not, for Vivianne, was courage in a glass – but that was only because she knew she had to keep her wits about her.

Besides, if no one looked closely, the pumpkin juice she was sipping could almost pass for firewhisky – and sipping firewhisky from a goblet while not displaying a single sign of drunkenness ought to give her a reputation for being formidable.

Vivianne would take what she could get at this point.

She was the Matriarch now. It didn’t matter that Great-Aunt Dindrane and Great-Aunt Laurelle both insisted that Vivianne was not to act as Matriarch until she came of age – or even better, until she graduated. The responsibility had seemed to settle on her shoulders halfway through the service. Now, looking through the crowd of dark-haired, gem-eyed woman, it was all Vivianne could do to stay calm and gaze around her with feigned disinterest.

There were currents – eddies – alliances and enmities in the crowd before her. Grandmother had said that running the family was a bit like playing a game of wizard’s chess; in theory the Matriarch was in charge, but each of the pieces had a mind of its own. The trick was to understand the lay of the board and to direct each piece to where it would do the most good.

But Vivianne couldn’t see the board. She could barely see the square in front of her. She didn’t know what the alliances were, who wasn’t speaking to whom, who might be persuaded to work against whom with just a bit of a push. Grandmother had known all of that, and Vivianne had always assumed she would have plenty of time to learn. But now …

Vivianne took a deep breath and a long drink of her pumpkin juice. Now was _not_ the time to panic.

Or grieve, for that matter.

“Vivianne!”

Vivianne looked up. She swallowed. “Great-Aunt Isolde.”

Her great-aunt looked so much like Grandmother, it _hurt_. True, Great-Aunt Isolde had only amethyst eyes, not mismatched ones, and she was shorter than even Vivianne. But their features were very similar; she wore her hair in much the same way; and she even favored much the same style of robes as Grandmother had, especially for formal occasions.

“My poor dear,” said Great-Aunt Isolde, clucking in sympathy or what would pass for it at a distance, “how are you holding up?”

“I could ask the same of you,” Vivianne turned the question around. “You—you and Grandmother were so—very close.”

“Well—we had our differences, I will admit—but Igraine … well, never mind that now.” Great-Aunt Isolde patted Vivianne’s shoulder. It was only through force of will that Vivianne kept from going stiff. “She was a wonderful sister, a wonderful sister, and a wonderful grandmother, too.”

“She was,” Vivianne agreed, and took another swallow of pumpkin juice.

“But I am worried about you, you know,” Great-Aunt Isolde said, putting a hand that she no doubt thought was consoling on Vivianne’s back. “My Isolde writes to me that you were—very upset when the news came in. As you should have been, of course, of course – but you understand, it is very worrying.”

_Oh, I’m sure you were worried._ A Matriarch going to pieces five minutes into her tenure? Worrying indeed.

Vivianne ignored the question. “Oh, Isolde … is Isolde here?” she asked instead. “I haven’t seen her. And I didn’t get a chance to ask her, before, if she was coming.”

“Er—well, no,” Great-Aunt Isolde replied. She adjusted her hat minutely. “My son Lot tells me that she could not make it. She had to – er – study.”

_Study._ That sounded about right. Vivianne would bet a hundred Galleons that Isolde was _studying_ with Fabius right now. With tongues.

“I’m sure she did. She’s found our NEWT courses to be rather challenging,” Vivianne said with an effortless shrug – as if to say that, well, _Isolde_ might find some courses challenging, but if so, that was Isolde’s problem.

“I … see,” Great-Aunt Isolde said, her hand coming up to play with the jet beads of her necklace. “Er … Vivianne … are you aware that your mother …”

Vivianne stiffened before she realized it.

_“Ugh! That Isolde!” Grandmother snapped, taking off her hat and throwing it like a flyer onto the nearest sofa. “I swear, Vivianne—if I have to deal with her simpering ‘Igraine, are you aware that your daughter …’ one more time, I will be hexing her to the Isle of Drear!”_

The memory faded – but Vivianne’s breath was coming fast – and she could not, could not lose control now, she could not, could not panic now—

“Oh, Izzy darling!” came a far-too-merry voice for a funeral. Vivianne blinked – and there was Great-Aunt Enid, grinning and practically sashaying across the parquet floor. “ _There_ you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!” She hooked her arm through her sister’s before Great-Aunt Isolde could do more than gape in protest. “Come, you simply have to try the gray stuff—it’s delicious!”

“What? Enid, please, I am having a _conversation_ —”

“And I am interrupting it. Funny how that works, isn’t it?” Great-Aunt Enid said, batting her eyelashes innocently enough.

When Great-Aunt Isolde sighed and looked to heaven for strength, Great-Aunt Enid winked at Vivianne.

“Now humor your little sister,” Great-Aunt Enid said, steering Great-Aunt Isolde toward the buffet table, “and tell me, if you dare, that the gray stuff is anything other than the most wonderful … whatever-it-is that you have ever tasted.”

“ _Enid_.”

But while Great-Aunt Isolde could protest to her heart’s content, she was being dragged firmly away, and Vivianne could breathe again.

Alas, it was only for a moment.

“Vivianne!” came the breathless gasp. Vivianne scarcely had a minute to look up before Aunt Aqua came tottering – definitely tottering – toward her and caught her in an equally breathless embrace. “Oh, Vivianne! You poor _dear_! How _are_ you?”

“He—hello, Aunt Aqua,” Vivianne stammered, trying to pat her aunt’s back and keep her drink from spilling at the same time.

“Aqua, please. You’re smothering the poor girl,” said a voice that Vivianne was not at all surprised to hear. Because if even outcast Aunt Elaine came back for the funeral …

Well, Uncle Victor certainly couldn’t be kept away.

Her uncle – great-uncle, technically, but somehow Uncle Victor and Aunt Aqua had never quite managed to grow into the great- appellation – was a tall man, dark-haired with silvered temples that lent him an air of distinction. The perfectly groomed mustache, slightly modern but entirely correct pressed black robes, and piercing emerald eyes did nothing to detract from that distinction. He always moved with purpose and firmness, like Moses setting forth into the Red Sea, serene in the knowledge that the waves would part before him.

The waves generally did as they were expected to do. If Grandmother was – had been – to be believed, it was this fact that had made Uncle Victor so difficult to deal with as he grew older.

“Uncle Victor,” Vivianne said, inclining her head.

“Vivianne,” he said, stepping closer and quickly kissing her on each cheek. He laid a hand on her shoulder, just long enough to communicate warmth and support, gone before Vivianne could grow weary of its presence. “How are you? I can only imagine how shocking and distressing this must be for you.”

Vivianne took a deep breath and forced a smile. “I am—well enough, all things considered. You?”

She could have pointed out that today’s events may be presumed to be harder on Uncle Victor than they would be on Vivianne, given how things had been between him and Grandmother when she died. But he beat her to it, as ever. “An excellent answer, my dear, and one I share. But at least you …” He laid a hand on her shoulder again. “At least you cannot be said to have regrets.”

_Do you?_ Vivianne wondered – and she found herself hoping that unto the last, Grandmother hadn’t. Grandmother—had had a point. And it didn’t matter that it wasn’t fair, that Uncle Victor had always been kind to her. Grandmother had had a point.

Vivianne took a deep breath and half a swallow of pumpkin juice, because half a swallow was all she had left.

“Victor, _please_ ,” Aunt Aqua sighed. “Don’t say such things to the poor girl. She’s got enough on her shoulders without worrying about the previous generation’s feuds.” Aunt Aqua pushed a loose lock of hair from Vivianne’s face in a gesture that was probably meant to be motherly. “Poor dear. You know that if you need anything, you only have to ask, don’t you?”

“Indeed,” Uncle Victor replied. He let go of Vivianne only to put his arm around his wife’s waist – chastely but no less affectionately. “You know we are both here for you, Vivianne. Having to shoulder this burden at so young an age—”

“Funny about that,” interrupted Great-Aunt Laurelle. “I believe it’s specifically in Igraine’s will that this girl shan’t be shouldering any burdens until she comes of age. Which I suppose is quite young. Seventeen feels like a lifetime ago for me.” Great-Aunt Laurelle paused, thoughtful. “Possibly more than one lifetime.”

Uncle Victor and Aunt Aqua turned around. “Aunt Laurelle!” Aqua gasped. “What a surprise—”

“What, that I’m still alive? Well, I suppose I can’t blame you for being surprised by that. Some mornings I wake up and I’m rather surprised myself.” Great-Aunt Laurelle came closer, seeming to lean heavily on her cane, although Vivianne wondered how much of that was genuine and how much was, well, seeming.

She caught Vivianne’s eye as she came closer, and she gave a faint – very faint – nod of her head. _Go,_ that nod said, _I’ll handle this._

But Vivianne hesitated. It would not do for the Matriarch to be seen to run away on her first day on the job …

But on the other hand, Vivianne’s armor was gone, her strength was spent, and if Great-Aunt Laurelle and Great-Aunt Dindrane were to be believed, she wasn’t really Matriarch yet anyway …

So Vivianne took the coward’s way. She nodded once to Great-Aunt Laurelle, put her goblet on the nearest table, and left the room with the purposeful stride of someone who had too much pumpkin juice and needed to visit the powder room.

She didn’t go to the powder room. Instead, she activated the patch of wall that led to the first servants’ stair. Making sure to shut it behind her, she dashed up as quickly as she could without running.

She barely made it five steps before she gave up on pretending not to run, and she ran all the way back to her bedroom.

* * *

_Before ditching Victor and his silly wife,_ Laurelle Honour Gorlois reflected _, I should have made them do_ something _about their daughter and her best friend._ Victor had a better rapport with Josie than _any_ of the Gorloises did; the one soft spot in his smooth, facile, scheming façade was for soft, fluffy, silly women like his wife – which Josie was. She’d never have said it to Igraine’s face, but Josie wasn’t a Gorlois at all; she was a Yaxley, just like her cousin.

It had always struck Laurelle as somewhat disappointing that _Elaine_ was the one who had gotten herself kicked out of the family and Josie the one who had birthed the matriarch. If they could have somehow combined Igraine’s strength with Elaine’s, if Vivianne had been Elaine’s daughter … what the Gorloises could have become.

But one went to war with the army one had, not the army one wished one had.

Still, if Rosie’s robes slid open two more inches, she’d be showing everyone in the room her knickers. And that just wouldn’t do. Laurelle liked her lingerie as much as anyone – but only Chuck got to see it. Well, for now. With her luck, she’d outlive Chuck, despite being “very nearly twice his age” and another two husbands besides before death came for her.

The nice thing, however, about being a crotchety old crone was that nobody really looked sideways when Laurelle squared up her shoulders under her designer robes, strode purposefully across the room, and whacked a younger girl in the knees with her cane.

“Great-Aunt Laurelle!” Both Josie, who hadn’t even gotten hit – she might be sitting with her legs through the slit in her robes, but her legs were at least _crossed –_ and Rosie, who by virtue of her ever-more-splaying legs, _had_ gotten whacked, yelped.

“Sit up, Tearose. And arrange your robes like a _lady_. Even if you’re not one, which I’ll leave it for you to decide on that,” Laurelle arched a perfectly groomed black brow at the woman who was rubbing her shin, “you, at least, owe your aunt’s memory enough to _fake it_ for _one bloody reception_.”

_I should not have to tell this to a woman grown, with a child of her own—if you wanted to call anything to fall off the Goyle tree a child. The best thing that could happen to_ that _family would be for magic to fall out of it entirely,_ before _they become the next Gaunts._

_Better a Squib than the next tawdry revolutionary. Not out of Gorlois blood, thank you._

And she was a _teacher_ – a piss-poor one, if what Laurelle’s great-grandchildren had told her was any indication at all, but still a teacher. Her shin was going to be bruised – Laurelle glanced over her shoulder – and it hadn’t made a damned bit of difference.

Dindrane made a beckoning motion from near the door just as Laurelle was debating whether to go back for round two. But something did need to be done about – ah! There was Serenity. Laurelle Serenity, Laurelle’s granddaughter and mother of Niniane Morgause, the latest Gorlois girl to be suffering through Hogwarts under Rosie’s tutelage.

“Serenity, sweet. Could you do your poor old granny a favor?” she asked the tall, willowy, emerald-eyed woman who could have been Laurelle years ago, barring the eye color.

“Of course, Grandmother,” Serenity told her.

“You always had a knack for Transfiguration, if I remember. If Tearose can’t seem to recall this is a funeral reception—could you give her something to remember it by?” Laurelle knew she had made a good choice when she saw her granddaughter’s smile. Serenity had inherited Laurelle’s lack of tolerance for silliness. Plus, being the mother of a girl who was going to have a not-inconsiderable portion of her educational career balancing on that tart’s drunken shoulders, well … Laurelle could understand the smile. She even echoed it before patting her granddaughter on the shoulder as she headed for Dindrane and the door.

The smile became a more wicked version as she heard “A _chastity belt_?! Great-Aunt Laurelle!!” cut through the din.

“What?” Josie’s voice came through a moment later.

“Someone transfigured my knickers into a _chastity belt_ ,” Rosie wailed.

Laurelle granted herself a cackle as she slid out into the hall.

“You didn’t really transfigure Rosie’s knickers, did you?” Dindrane asked, straightening her black sheath.

“Not at all.” Laurelle laid her hand against her chest in injured dignity.

“So you asked someone else to do it,” Dindrane said pushing open a door to the parlor that attached to Igraine’s study.

“I did not.” Laurelle shot Dindrane a look.

“Did not what?” Nell asked from a chair.

“Did not transfigure Tearose’s knickers into a chastity belt or ask someone to do so.” Laurelle sat herself in the chair closest to the fireplace. The room was impressive, priceless dark wood, the styling dating back to Louis XIII – if the pieces themselves didn’t date from that era – royal blue brocade fabrics accented in powder blue, echoing the hand-painted paneling. But it was _comfortable._ It was a room that they had spent many hours chatting in, plotting in, advising in, directing the tide that was the Gorlois clan.

Their tenure was coming to an end, but it wasn’t over yet.

“Vivi did well, I think.” Enid leaned back on the sofa, scrubbing at her temples. Though she shared many of Igraine’s features – well, they all did, it was literally in the blood – the differences between Enid and her elder sister were more clear than with Isolde. It wasn’t painful to look at her, just … comfortable. A reminder of Igraine, but not an intolerable one.

She had a plate of hors d’oeuvres balanced on the sofa arm. It was moderately full, which meant that while she was stressed, she was holding up okay. Enid was a nibbler; at any family gathering she always had a plate of finger food in hand. Those who knew her, however, could judge her mental state by the fullness of the plate. If it was piled high, it was a bad day.

If Igraine had been here, she and Laurelle would have shared a smile and shaken their heads. They’d both laughed for years that if either of _them_ had grazed the way Enid did, they’d need to be rolled from room to room.

… She was too old for this shit …

“I was impressed, even if Laurelle thinks I’m too easily impressed.” Nell shot Laurelle a sidelong look with a smirk attached.

“She _did_ do well; this has all of _us_ scrambling. And Igraine – while a niece, cousin, aunt, friend, and our matriarch – was not … not our only sense of stability,” Laurelle mused. The other women nodded to themselves.

“We’ll have to provide what stability we can to Vivi, even after this,” Dindrane reminded them. “She doesn’t _need_ it – not like Josie would in her shoes – but she should have it.”

“Agreed,” Laurelle said as Enid and Nell nodded.

“Did you get the Book to—to its new Keeper?” Dindrane turned to Nell, causing two pairs of emerald and one pair of amethyst eyes to shoot sidelong to Laurelle. She might not have known everything about the book – no one did; it had so much spellwork built into it that it had nearly passed mortal comprehension – but she believed Igraine when she said that the book did as much to choose its next Keeper as the last Keeper did. Even if that was a half-blood who wasn’t even a Gorlois.

And she knew Igraine’s reasons for doing it as well, and they were sound. She wouldn’t second-guess her now.

“Yes. I didn’t get a chance to talk to Vivianne in person, but I left the note like Aunt Igraine told me to, in the panel,” Nell said. “Elaine wasn’t happy about it.”

“Does she know, then?” Enid asked, sticking her finger into the gray stuff piped onto a soda cracker and licking it off her finger.

“She knows I talked to Rowan. If she knows about the book, it’s because of Rowan. I didn’t tell her anything further than that.” Nell drummed her fingers on wooden arm of the chair. “She asked me if Igraine didn’t want her when she was alive—why would she want her to have the book.” Nell’s amethyst eyes fell to the lap of her black robes, art deco patterns beaded in jet on fabric. “What do you answer to a question like that?”

“What did you answer?” Dindrane asked curiously.

“That I didn’t know.” Nell snorted.

“Ah, answering with the truth. Can we do that?” Laurelle asked into the silence.

“Don’t ever change, Great-Aunt Laurelle.” Nell’s grin was _almost_ her normal one.

“Did you find anything out from my twin?” Enid asked a moment later, having moved onto picking the strawberries off a piece of cake.

“Nothing concrete. You know Victor; he’s vague and weaseling when you ask him about the weather.” Laurelle sighed.

“You still think he’s involved?” Dindrane asked, taking a long draught of her rosé.

“Yes.”

“Answering with the truth – can we do that?” Nell stage-whispered behind her hand to Enid.

* * *

The fireplace flared to life, green flames casting reflections around the room. The last of the guests – well, the other guests – had gone.

It was _over_.

Rowan slumped in relief and felt a little bad for doing so. She hadn’t had as bad a time as she could have. It wasn’t the book – she’d barely looked at the book – but the fact that Ragnell had mentioned that her sons were the Pritchard boys and that they were here. Derek had always been nice enough, if a little fussy, besides being so much older. Jacob was in the same dorm with Aubrey, and sometimes he reminded Rowan of Zach. He’d seemed happy enough to see her, had even introduced Rowan to his father. Mr. Pritchard was also a bit fussy, but perfectly polite. If he had any idea that Rowan was Igraine’s scandalous half-blooded granddaughter, he’d never shown it.

So Rowan had spent the last part of the reception in one of the reading rooms with Jacob, Derek, their father, and other assorted menfolk and other girls like her – related to Igraine, but not Gorloises. It hadn’t been the best afternoon of her life. But it could have been so, so much worse.

Like it probably had been for her mother.

“That the last of them?” Elaine asked, poking her head into the parlor with the Flooing fireplace.

“Think s-s-so, M-Mum.”

“Thank _Merlin_.” Elaine flopped into one of the big wingback chairs by the door. “I thought we’d never be rid of them.” She pushed a hand through her hair – if Rowan was any judge, she’d been doing that a lot.

Rowan headed over and perched on the armrest of the chair. “Is th-there a l-l-lot of c-c-cleanup t-to d-d-do?”

Elaine waved her hand. “Don’t worry about that. Ettie will take care of it with a couple of snaps of her fingers. She’d just be offended if we tried to help.”

“Ah,” Rowan nodded. “M-M-Mum?”

“Yes?”

“Um … the l-l-last p-people out were P-Professor Yaxley … with a v-v-very b-b-big man s-s-supporting her,” Rowan wouldn’t mention how ugly he was, “and a … l-l-little girl?”

“Big ugly troll would be Gregory Goyle, her husband,” Elaine said in answer to Rowan’s unspoken question, “and the little girl would be their daughter. Rosacea. Even _I_ heard about that one,” Elaine snorted. “I just want to know how Tearose managed to drink that much and not—”

Elaine suddenly blinked and sat up. “Wait. You said they were the last out? And Goyle was helping her out?”

“Er—yes?”

“Son of a—” Elaine started, rocketing to her feet. Rowan almost fell off the side of the chair. “If Goyle had to help Tearose out, that means—”

“Where’d e’rybody go?” slurred a voice from the doorway.

Rowan looked up.

Aunt Josie stood there, her black designer robes nearly slipping off one shoulder, swaying as she tried to make her way across the floor in heels that were just shy of insane. “They all gone? Can’t be all gone. The party’sh …” She hiccupped. “The party’sh jusht getting shtarted …”

Elaine buried her head in her hands and groaned.

But after that one groan, she was ready for action. “Rowan—there should be a bottle of Sporkle’s Sober-Up Serum in the medicine cabinet in the second east bathroom. Be a dear and grab that for me?”

“R-r-right,” Rowan said, hopping to the ground. “Um—is that the b-b-bathroom w-w-with the m-mermaids or the f-f-flowers?”

“Flowers.”

Rowan nodded and took off at a run for that bathroom. She was rather proud of herself, only tripping once and not even falling.

She found the bottle of syrupy purple potion easily and ran with it back to the parlor. When she got back there, her mother had somehow convinced Aunt Josie onto a sofa. “Can’t we get them back?” she was asking Elaine plaintively. “No fun bein’ ‘lone. Don’t wanna be ‘lone.”

“Ettie’s probably got the ballroom all cleaned up by now. I don’t think she’d appreciate us calling everyone back,” Elaine replied.

“M-Mum!” Rowan called, holding out the potion.

Aunt Josie heard her and looked. It took a minute for her to focus, but when she did, she pouted. Rowan never thought she’d say that about a woman who was old enough to be her mother, but that was the only word that would describe Aunt Josie’s expression. “No! Don’ wan’ no Sherum.”

“What? Rowan, did you get Sober-Up Serum? Tsk, tsk.” Elaine crossed over to Rowan and winked as she took the bottle. “I’ll just take care of that …”

Elaine waved her wand and a tumbler came flying to her from – actually, Rowan wasn’t sure where it was from. She poured the serum into the tumbler and handed the bottle back to Rowan. One more wave of the wand and the serum turned orange and translucent – just like firewhisky. “Look, Josie! We’ve got more firewhisky for you.”

“Firewhisky!” Aunt Josie said, her tone much more suited to a five-year-old inquiring after ice cream. “Ooh, where?”

“Right here, Josie, right here.” Elaine took the tumbler over. “Drink up, now.”

“Yay!” Aunt Josie said, and giggled. “Thanksh, Elaine. You know—shometimes you really are a good shush—a good shish—I love you. Shometimes.”

Rowan had to look away – she didn’t want to see the way her mother blinked and the suspiciously glassy look in her eyes.

So she didn’t see Aunt Josie drain the tumbler in one gulp. She didn’t see the way she shuddered when she was done, or how her eyes grew clear, or how the unusual flush in her cheeks vanished.

Rowan did, however, hear Aunt Josie shout, “You _bitch_!”

And she turned to look just in time to see Aunt Josie throw the tumbler at the fireplace. It hit the stone mantel and shattered.

Elaine rolled her eyes. “Calm down, Josie. I wasn’t going to leave you that drunk.” She waved her wand. “ _Calix reparo_. And there’s no reason to take your frustration out on the glassware.”

“Oh, _shut up_. You’re worse than …” Aunt Josie stopped, looking away, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.

Rowan watched Elaine’s face crumple, first in concern and then in sadness. “Josie?”

“Did it never _occur_ to you,” Aunt Josie spat, not looking at Elaine – not looking anywhere but the sofa cushions – “that maybe I have a _reason_ for wanting to be drunk? That maybe it’s easier to be drunk than to be sober right now?”

Elaine shook her head. “Drinking never solves your problems, Josie. When you sober up again, your problems are right there waiting for you – only now you have to deal with them hungover.”

“Like _you’d_ know that,” Aunt Josie snorted.

“Maybe I would,” Elaine murmured.

Aunt Josie’s gaze snapped to Elaine – so did Rowan’s. But Elaine didn’t give an inch. She simply raised an eyebrow.

“Stop it,” Aunt Josie whispered.

“Stop what?”

“Stop—stop _looking_ at me like that. You—you look just like Mother when she—when I was too much of a mess for her to even bother to scold!”

“Oh, _Josie_ ,” Elaine sighed. “I—”

“Shut up! Just— _shut up_! You have no bloody right to say anything, Elaine! You—you fucking _ran away_ when I needed you most!” Aunt Josie put her head in her hands. “That—that horrible November—when Mother and I came back from France—and I was miserable and heartbroken and pregnant and _fat_ —and we barely had a chance to put our bags down before you waltz in with that—that _Muggle_ —and tell us that you’re married! _Married_!” Aunt Josie looked up with fury in her eyes – tempered only by hurt. “What were you _thinking_ , Elaine?”

Rowan glanced at her mother. But Elaine’s face was completely closed. At least until she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose and shaking her head. “Josie … it was complicated.”

“ _That’s_ all you can say? It was _complicated_? He was a Muggle, Elaine!” Aunt Josie spat. “He was disgusting! Filth! And—and that stupid daughter of yours is—”

“Josie,” Elaine said—and Rowan went stiff. She’d not heard that tone from her mother very often, but when she did, it meant to _stop_ , don’t move, because Elaine meant _business_.

“She’s just like him, isn’t she?” Aunt Josie simpered, tossing her carefully arranged curls. “Admit it. You _know_ she’s like him. I barely saw that stupid Muggle for ten minutes, but even I can tell—”

“That isn’t an insult, Josie,” Elaine interrupted, although the way she snarled the words made Rowan wonder just how true they were. “Robert—Robert and I didn’t work out—but he is a good man, and he has done a _hell_ of a job with Rowan—”

“Please! Better not to have a father around a girl than to have her _Muggle_ father practically raising her!”

Elaine’s eyes blazed, and Rowan took a step back before she even realized she did.

“Well, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Josie?” Elaine spat. “Not having the father around to help raise your daughter?”

Aunt Josie faltered. “I—that’s _different_ —”

“Oh yes, _very_ different,” Elaine shot back. “My ex-husband can be a narrow-minded ostrich sometimes, but he is a _good man_. Dashwood Bullock? The best that can be said about him was that he was always too much of a coward to be a bad one!”

Aunt Josie gasped. “You—don’t you dare say that! You never knew him! You never knew everything he went through! After his father was sent to Azkaban after the first war—”

“Oh, _please_ , Josie! He brought his problems on himself! He wasn’t even out of Hogwarts a _month_ before he was caught trying to break into a vault in Gringotts!”

“That was his own vault!” Aunt Josie leapt to her feet. “His family vault that they couldn’t get into with his father in Azkaban! He had every right—”

“Who the fuck _cares_ if he had the right? He was a _moron_ , Josie!” Elaine smacked her forehead. “Those Hit Wizards the Ministry sent in after him? They were there to save his life from the bloody goblins! But no, he has to cast _two_ Unforgiveables on them to get them to help him escape! Two Unforgiveables, Josie!”

“That—he wasn’t thinking!” Josie stammered. “He was scared! I’m sure he was!”

“So what?” Elaine fired back. “He was an idiot! He landed himself in Azkaban for life for that! And then—then, when he gets a chance to get out in the big breakout of ‘96, with his Death Eater father and all his friends—he threw his lot in with the Dark Lord!”

“What else could he have done?” Josie argued. “They would have killed him if he hadn’t! And he never—he never did anything _bad_! The worst he ever did was be a Snatcher!”

“Oh, yes, a Snatcher,” Elaine spat. “Hauling terrified Muggle-borns up in front of the Registration Commission. Hunting down the only people brave enough to say the Dar— _Tom Riddle’s_ name. No, Josie, he never did anything _bad_ at all.”

“Well—at least he never dragged Vivianne down with him!” Josie fired back, and Rowan gasped. “He never—he never tried—”

“He never knew she _existed_ until he got out and Tom Riddle’s men took over the Ministry and you managed to corner him at a Ministry Christmas party!”

“But he never said anything about it, even after! Even when you and—and your stupid Auror friends captured him after the war! He could have landed you in hot water; he could have buried the whole Gorlois clan in scandal! But _he didn’t_!”

Elaine snorted, and she turned a look on her younger sister that was absolutely withering. “Like I said—the best that can be said about him is that he was too much of a coward to be a bad man.”

Aunt Josie gasped. Then she drew her wand. “ _Serpens—_ ”

Rowan yelped and fumbled for her own wand, but her mother was faster. “ _Petrificus totalus_!”

Aunt Josie didn’t even have a chance to shriek before her limbs snapped together – her jaw shut with an audible clack – and she went down sideways like a tree.

For a second Elaine just stood there, panting, staring between her wand and her sister. Aunt Josie lay still.

Then Elaine shuddered and shouted, “ _Rowan_!”

“R-r-r-right h-h-here, M-M-Mum!” Rowan stammered.

Elaine looked at her—she blinked—she blinked a few more times. “Rowan.” Elaine swallowed. “Get—get your things. Get them _now_. We are _leaving_.”

It would take too long to answer, so Rowan nodded and ran out of the room and up the huge staircase. She tripped on one of the steps, went sprawling forward, but scrambled to her feet and kept going.

But three steps from the top, she stopped.

Vivianne stood at the top of the stairs. She’d taken her hair down and it hung on either side of her face in a heavy black curtain. Maybe that was why her face looked so white.

“V-V-Vivianne,” Rowan gasped. “H-how—h-h-how m-much of that d-d-did you h-hear?”

Vivianne didn’t answer. Not in so many words.

Her wand came out and pointed at Rowan. “If you—if you tell _anyone_ that my father was a Snatcher—and my grand—” But Vivianne couldn’t choke that word out. She slapped her hand over her mouth and almost seemed to mewl.

Rowan held out her hands, palms up, nonthreatening. “Vivianne—I w-w-wouldn’t. It’s o-okay. I w-w-won’t t-t-tell anyone. I p-p-promise.”

Vivianne stared at her; if she could lay Rowan’s soul bare with a look … well, she probably did.

She nodded once, turned around, and ran off – probably back to her bedroom. Rowan ran the next few steps up – she almost went after Vivianne—

“ _Rowan_!” Elaine called.

“C-c-coming, M-M-Mum!” Rowan shouted back – then she ran into the bedroom she’d been assigned and threw everything that was hers into the duffel bag. Including the book.

_Sorry, Vivianne – but I’ve only got time to clean up after one crisis today._


	30. Chapter 29: You Are Not Alone

**Chapter 29: You Are Not Alone**

Vivianne hid in her bedroom for the rest of the evening. She had no idea how her mother got out of that body-bind. Maybe the spell wore off. Maybe Aunt Elaine took it off before she left. Maybe Ettie used her elf magic. She didn’t know.

She didn’t care.

She didn’t see her mother again that weekend. When she woke up the next morning, Ettie brought breakfast to her room and apologized for Josie, saying that she wouldn’t be able to see Vivianne before she went off. She was “feeling poorly.” Vivianne nodded numbly. So Josie had gotten into the firewhisky again and was hungover.

Vivianne wasn’t surprised.

The only order she gave to Ettie was to look after Josie as best she could. Then, Vivianne packed her valise, went to the parlor downstairs (mercifully empty), and Flooed back to Hogwarts at ten o’clock, which was when she had been told that the Floo connection would open up again.

She arrived in Hagrid’s hut. Only Hagrid was there to greet her, which made a certain amount of sense: Professor Yaxley was probably in the same state her mother was in. He didn’t seem surprised to see that Elaine and Rowan weren’t with Vivianne. But he did ask Vivianne, very gently, if she was all right.

Vivianne smiled, lied, and went back to the castle and the Slytherin dungeons.

She managed to get her valise unpacked before she realized that she couldn’t stay there. Belle, Cornelia, and Isolde were still at breakfast, and she had no idea where Sybilla was – probably with Spencer. But they would all come back eventually. Sybilla … Sybilla would be tolerable. But Belle would want to know how she was, how everything had gone …

Vivianne couldn’t face that. Not yet.

Telling herself she would go to the library and catch up on all the homework she should have been doing when she had been hiding in her bedroom, she packed her bag full of books and left the dormitory.

But she didn’t go to the library.

Her feet led her on a long, winding journey through the castle. She didn’t pay much attention to where she walked. She didn’t care how the portraits whispered and some stared as she went past. She even passed a knot of gossiping Gryffindors without once making sure her hand was on her wand.

They didn’t hex her, but perhaps that was to be expected. Gryffindors believed in chivalry.

Somehow, however, she ended up on the fifth floor. Her feet led her closer to the hospital wing. Maybe because that was …

Vivianne stopped short with a gasp. She shuddered, shook her head, turned around—

And came face-to-face with the statue of Boris the Bewildered.

_… Boris …_

Vivianne looked at the door to the left of the statue.

But … why not? She knew the password; Belle had sweet-talked it out of James once last year, and Sybilla’s threats ensured that he kept them updated when it changed. He didn’t like it, but as Sybilla was wont to point out, he liked it better than he would like being hexed.

And a bath—right now a bath would be _heavenly_ …

Vivianne cast a quick glance to the right and to the left. No one was in the corridor. She hurried to the door and whispered, “Bath bomb.”

The door clicked open, and Vivianne slipped inside.

As soon as Vivianne saw the white marble, the sparkling chandelier, and – above all – the _bath_ , she felt the tension slip from her shoulders. For the first time in days, she could breathe.

For the first time in days, she smiled.

Vivianne ran to her favorite tap, the one with the rose-quartz handle, shedding clothes as she went. Then she turned on a few more – one with pink and blue bubbles the size of footballs, one that fountained out above the bath, a third one that released a sweetly-scented foam that made her hair softer and sleeker than any other shampoo or conditioner she’d ever tried. She watched as the bath filled, then, pausing only to say a few spells to fold her clothes neatly – it wouldn’t do to let them get wrinkled – she ran to the diving board and dove in.

The water was warm, foamy, inviting. Vivianne swam under for as long as she could hold her breath, and when she surfaced, it was like a mermaid, back arched and hair whipping.

She pushed the hair out of her face, waved to the mermaid portrait – who was looking rather jealous – and dove beneath the surface again.

It felt good to swim, to cut through the water with clean, powerful strokes. The tension she’d stored up this hellish weekend came out with every movement of leg or arm. She swam one length of the pool, then two, then three.

She kept swimming, faster and faster – until her breath started to be labored, until her muscles began to protest. She hadn’t swum like this in months.

So Vivianne let her strokes even out, then slow, then finally stop. She turned to her back and floated, her hair fanning out in the water beneath her.

Eyes closed, ears only open to the lap of the water on each side of the pool, Vivianne let her body float where it would. She stayed that way until the water grew tepid and the foam and bubbles slowly faded away.

Then and only then did she swim over to the tap with the solitaire diamond – the one that let out only clear, pure water. Vivianne turned it on and rinsed her hair out. At least it wasn’t as tangled as it could have been.

Holding her hair up with one hand, she made her way on tip-toe to the pool ladder, climbed out, and fetched her wand. A few muttered spells and one of the white, fluffy towels came over to her, as did one of the combs that were thoughtfully left here for students who had forgotten theirs. Securing the towel around herself, Vivianne sat down at the edge of the pool, letting her legs dangle in the water.

She took a deep breath, letting the steam and the scents fill her lungs This … this was good. She finally felt _clean_. This was better, a thousand times better, than the bubble bath she could have taken back at the dormitory or even back at home.

Eyes closed, she took up the comb and started to work it through her hair. She took her time. There was no rush. Nobody was expecting her to be anywhere. She wouldn’t ruin the good work the bathwater had done by combing too fast and breaking too many strands.

Maybe that was her mistake. Maybe she was too languorous, too lazy. Maybe she let herself be lulled into a false sense of security.

Because it wasn’t until she heard the door latch click that Vivianne realized something. With everything _on_ her mind – one thing had _slipped_ her mind.

And that thing was locking the door.

* * *

Zach frowned slightly as he caught the scent of roses as the door to the prefect’s bath opened. The bath was usually as deserted as the Chudley Cannons’ trophy case by this time on a Sunday. But the door _had_ opened; it wasn’t locked. Curiosity might have killed the cat, and later he’d think of the irony of that statement, but it hadn’t stopped him from opening the door.

Sitting on the edge of the tub, wrapped only in a towel – he recognized the profile, even half obscured by wet ringlets of dark hair, before the mismatched eyes shot to him – Vivianne.

“Zach!”

He pushed down the first, second, third, and fourth questions that sprang to the back of his throat, as they were all variations on the obvious stupid question. It was pretty obvious what she was doing here. And as for how she’d gotten into the room, it was more of the same. Someone had given her the password.

“You—forgot to lock the door. Sorry.” Zach took two steps backward, which of course ended up being his undoing; he hit the corner of the door, causing it to swing back and shut with a thud that was probably only painfully loud to _him_.

“Wait, Zach.” Vivianne lifted one leg, putting her foot on the edge of the tub in preface to standing up, and Zach gulped as the towel gaped. His eyes shot across the room to the mermaid portrait, which was laughing. “You—you aren’t going to tell anyone, are you?”

He looked back at Vivianne, wishing his mother’s protocol lessons on looking at people when they were talking to you had covered what to do when presented with someone wearing only a towel. Was it any less rude then to look at the wall – or the floor – or the ceiling, give them a sense of modesty?

Ironically the towel covered more than most of the bathing costumes he’d seen his friends in, but there was just … something about the concept of a _towel_.

“Are you?” Her voice broke slightly.

“No. No, I—I don’t think that’s necessary.” Zach took another step back, his hand going for the door knob. “You—you’ve had a long weekend.”

“You keep letting me off the hook like this, Mr. Duncan, and people’ll start talking.” Vivianne chuckled; it— _almost_ —touched her eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to take points off—give me a lecture—turn me into my head of house? I was breaking the rules,” she challenged.

“Your head of house isn’t back yet, you guys have like five points, and um, no—no lecture,” Zach said as she padded cat-silent across the bathroom floor.

“So—what _are_ you going to do?” She smirked archly.

“Uh—go?” His hand scrabbled for the door knob.

“I don’t think you really want to.”

It stopped him dead. He blinked. Once—twice—three times. _Apparently, the appropriate answer to her question has actually been to stand here like the village idiot,_ Zach thought.

“You can calm down, you know. I’m not going to hex you. I don’t even have my wand.” She gestured toward the pile of her clothes not far from the edge of the bath. She probably thought the gesture would reassure him—but all Zach knew was the way turning like that had caused her towel to bunch and gape, exposing a faint line of pale skin and just the barest hint of a tan line on her hip.

“Vivianne.” His voice cracked at every syllable in her name, his eyes flicking back up to meet hers. She frowned slightly, before her hands fell to adjusting her towel. Then a flicker, almost like a smile, crossed her face. He had about enough time to notice the way the water droplets still studding her collarbone, face, and hair caught the light just like diamonds before she raised her arms and dropped her weight on them, hands flanking his arms, effectively pinning Zach to the door.

“ _Vivianne_.”

* * *

 

“What’s the matter, Zach?” Vivianne asked, tilting her head to one side. “You look like you’ve never had a beautiful girl pin you to a door before.”

“I can’t—can’t say that I have,” Zach stammered. He really was adorable. Not just that he had a face that gave Adonis a run for his money – any boy could have that – but the way he looked at her, the way he bit his lip, the way he tried so _very_ hard to keep his eyes on her face and not on her towel.

Why had it taken her so long corner him like this? Vivianne tilted her head to the side, one hand moving to just barely stroke Zach’s jaw as she considered the question.

“Viv— _Vivianne_ ,” Zach said, tried to insist. His hand came over hers, but it didn’t move her hand away. Instead it closed over Vivianne’s, gentle, almost protective.

“Zachary.” Vivianne arched her eyebrow at him. “Look me in the eye and tell me that you aren’t as into me as I am into you. That you don’t want me as much as I want you.”

Zach’s jaw fell. His eyes didn’t leave her face.

But he didn’t answer. And he certainly didn’t say no.

His thumb even started to slowly stroke the back of her hand.

Vivianne didn’t smirk.

She smiled.

“That,” she murmured, so soft that Zach would have had to read her lips if they hadn’t been as close as they were, “is what I thought.”

And with that, there was nothing much left to say – not with words, anyway.

Vivianne tilted Zach’s head to one side – tilted hers to the other – closed her eyes, and leaned in.

She was fairly certain Zach met her halfway.

And when their lips met – perfection.

It wasn’t lightning or sparks. It was a fire on a cold winter’s day, the bubbles in the perfect glass of champagne, flowers blooming in the springtime. Something real and natural and so very, very right.

Based on the way that Zach’s arm came around her waist and pulled her just – that – much – closer – Vivianne would judge that he felt the same way.

And then – because nothing perfect could last forever – it ended.

Vivianne was the one to break it off, pulling away slowly – so slowly – teasing Zach to think that he could follow her until he couldn’t. When they finally parted, Zach leaned back against the door, letting out a long exhale.

“There now,” Vivianne murmured, her thumb just rubbing against his cheek, “was that so bad?”

* * *

“Bad” wouldn’t have been the first word to come to Zach’s mind; at least, it wouldn’t have been if his mind weren’t trying to fill itself up with minutia, like the fact that they were in the prefects’ bathroom and Vivianne was only wearing a towel and he really didn’t want to explain why he was in the bathing room with a girl, especially one wearing only a towel. He didn’t think that he could even convince Professor Sprout that this wasn’t what it looked like.

Vivianne was watching him and he offered her a reassuring smile. “No—but …” He trailed off, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“But?” Vivianne asked archly, her head cocking slightly to one side before brushing at the cinnamon colored strands of his hair.

“But—Vivianne, you’re wearing a _towel_.” Zach bit his lip again.

“I’m aware.” She arched one eyebrow.

“And that could be a problem—especially as this isn’t—well, it’s _private,_ most people would knock—but …” He sighed. “Do you want to explain? If anyone else comes in?” _I don’t_ , Zach thought.

“Not really,” Vivianne admitted. “Still.”

“Still, my mum would have my hide if she ever heard I was here with you—dressed like you are.” Zach shoved that to the forefront of his mind, admittedly partially to cover the thought of what his father would say if he ever found out. Probably clap him on the shoulder and tell him that he always knew that Zach was his boy. And Zach _wasn’t_ , thank you very much. He might have shared some genetics with Michael, but he was _not_ Michael’s boy or his son beyond those genetics.

“So what would you suggest?” Vivianne asked, the arch tone coming back to her voice.

Zach quirked an eyebrow at Vivianne, who almost—but not quite—flushed.

“I could wait outside? I mean if you …” Zach trailed off. “I’m not sure—I mean this might not be the time,” he admitted softly.

“Not the time?” Vivianne asked incredulously.

“Everyone heard about you and Blake—and with your grandmother …” Zach told her.

“Blake and I were over that day you walked in on us and Blake almost punched you,” Vivianne told him, very firmly. “We were probably over before that—but _no_ Gorlois woman stays with a man who harasses her. I—just needed to mitigate the amount of fallout.”

Zach watched the way her face crumpled slightly, a drip of water splashing down onto her cheek and tracking toward her chin like a tear. It was only a water drop, but he brushed it away anyway.

“I’m sorry, Vivianne.”

“For what?” Vivianne asked.

“For everything—I mean, you’ve gone through more than enough. I wish there was something I could do,” Zach admitted.

“I can think of a few things.” Vivianne said with a hint of a wink in her tone.

“After you get dressed, we can talk about it.”

“But—”

“After you get dressed,” Zach repeated. “Please, Vivianne. I need to be able to live with myself tomorrow.”

“… Oh. I guess—I guess I hadn’t thought about that,” Vivianne said.

Zach shrugged, but softened it with a smile.

* * *

And with that, he left.

Vivianne stared at the door for a moment after he left, wondering … it wouldn’t do to wonder. So, even though it smacked of locking the barn door after the horse had gone, she locked the door and turned back to her clothes.

The click of the latch echoed in the marble bathing chamber. She wondered if Zach could hear it out in the hall. If he could, she hoped he wasn’t offended.

Wrapping the towel around her hair – she’d untangle it in a minute – she got dressed as quickly as she could. A quick-drying charm ensured that she didn’t get her clothes soaked. Another charm drained the bathtub, leaving only humidity and the faint scent of roses as evidence that there had ever been a bath in here.

Vivianne took a deep breath and told herself to stop woolgathering, comb her hair, and get out of here already.

But she couldn’t stop woolgathering. Even if she could work her way through the tangles and the knots in her hair, she couldn’t stop teasing at the ones in her mind.

_I need to be able to live with myself tomorrow._

She hadn’t—gone and pulled a Blake on Zach, had she?

Maybe she’d been a little aggressive. Had chased instead of letting herself be chased. But she’d given him a chance to say no, hadn’t she? She’d practically _dared_ him to stay no. And he’d wanted that kiss; that much she was sure of. After all, if Blake had pulled something like that on her, she’d have been hexing him or delivering a swift kick to the groin – not kissing him back.

Besides, if she let Zach chase her, she was fairly certain she would be waiting for him to start pursuing until Christmas at the very earliest. Zach did not strike her as a chaser.

So that was all right … more or less.

As for the rest …

_Merlin, Vivianne, what were you thinking? Your mother would have pulled something like that!_

_… No, she wouldn’t. Even if she wanted the boy – man – she’d have shrieked and pretended to be embarrassed, not walked right up and kissed him._

_Mother doesn’t seek out what she wants. She assumes it will come to her. And then she pouts and cries when it doesn’t._

And as for the timing? There would be gossip. Blake would not be happy, and he would try to make trouble, but he would try to do that if she waited a week or a fortnight or even a month – unless of course he found someone else first. And that felt too much like letting him win for Vivianne’s taste.

As for her grandmother …

If she ever found out – she’d probably be wondering if Vivianne had taken leave of her senses, surely, but that had more to do with _where_ this had all gone down than _when_ it had happened. If – if she’d cornered Zach in an empty classroom with all of her clothes on …

Her grandmother would have raised an eyebrow – that had been her default response to most of Vivianne’s romantic misadventures. But surely she would have understood. She wouldn’t want Vivianne to put her life on hold just to satisfy someone else’s idea of proper mourning.

Gorlois women did not wallow when there was work to be done.

So Vivianne took a deep breath – wrinkling her nose, the humidity was getting rather annoying – and told herself that it was all going to be all right. The timing didn’t matter, not really. And Zach …

Vivianne shook her head and went fishing in her bag. She thought she had a hair tie—

Ah, _there_ it was. Buried at the bottom of the bag, but there nonetheless. Her favorite green hair tie, charmed to suck all the water from her hair as it dried. The hair tie would be soaked by the time an hour or two had passed, but her jumper wouldn’t be, and that was all that mattered.

Vivianne plaited her hair and tied it off. Then she shouldered her bag and went out to find Zach.

She didn’t realize that she had expected him to leave until she felt the relief flood through her when she saw that he had stayed.

She didn’t realize that she had expected him to be angry until she was surprised to see him smile.

But Vivianne pushed all of that down – down deep, where it wouldn’t bother her. She forced a smirk and sauntered over to Zach, taking both of his hands in her own.

Zach, for his part, squeezed back.

Vivianne smiled. And then she tilted her head back, looking up at him, pretending to be thoughtful and lustful in equal measure.

“So …” she asked, “where were we?”

* * *

There was more to it than that. He could see it in Vivianne’s face, even if she was trying to hide it. Zach sighed and drew one hand away from hers, brushing from her face the stray baby-fine strands of dark hair that she had missed when plaiting it, as if that would somehow clear away the mask she’d pulled over her expression while getting dressed.

He thought he heard a gasp and a giggle behind him, though when he glanced over his shoulder, no one was visible. Still, that meant nothing; the hall was full of places to duck into. And he took advantage of that himself, gesturing toward the nearest doorway with his chin. Vivianne nodded.

“You never did answer me,” Vivianne said, pulling herself up onto the desk as Zach put a locking charm on the door.

“We were at the impasse of you wanting to snog and me thinking maybe it’s better if we _talked_ for a minute first.” Zach hopped up onto the desk next to her. Vivianne grabbed his left hand, turning it over in hers, tracing his palm lightly with a fingernail.

“There’s not much to talk about,” Vivianne muttered. “And I could make sure you’d like the snogging.”

“I’m sure I would,” Zach agreed. “But that leads to relationships like—like my dad’s. And …” He trailed off.

“What’s your dad like?” Vivianne asked after a moment.

“Blake—without his parents’ money.” Zach pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his free arm around them. “He’s gotten everywhere he is on the strength of his looks and charm. And he doesn’t care much who he has to walk over or drag down or use as long as it gets him what he wants.” He tipped his cheek to his knees, looking at Vivianne sideways.

“Sounds like my Yaxley relatives,” Vivianne muttered, almost too quietly to hear. “And my mother.”

“I know it’s going to sound stupid, because your grandmother just—and everything—but is something … wrong? You didn’t—I know it’s a Slytherin thing not to put your cards on the table—but you can talk to me. I won’t say anything— _ever_ —to _anyone_.”

Her eyes met his with almost as much force as Zach had put into that last statement.

* * *

 

Vivianne swallowed. But she couldn’t look away.

He probably wouldn’t tell anyone. No – not probably – practically certainly.

But talking about things … would mean …

Vivianne sighed. Her gaze dropped to her lap. “I’m not even sure I would know where to begin.”

Zach didn’t say anything stupid, like “Begin at the beginning.” That was always a plus. Instead he held her hand a little tighter.

When Vivianne looked up at him, he just smiled.

Maybe … maybe she could talk. Just a little bit. Just enough to get … some of this off her chest.

“I … it was not a good weekend,” she started. “My mother … well, to start, she kept picking stupid fights with Rowan’s mother.” Vivianne raised an eyebrow at Zach. “How much do you know about … that?”

“I know that Rowan’s mother was—disowned because she married Rowan’s father,” Zach replied, rather diplomatically, all things considered. Certainly more diplomatically than Rowan had phrased it.

Vivianne nodded. “My mother—she’s not _sensible_ about it. Grandmother—Grandmother never talked much about Aunt Elaine. She—she had some sharp comments, but for the most part, she just … didn’t talk about it. But my mother—it was snipe, snipe, snipe. Nonstop,” Vivianne murmured. “And Aunt Elaine would respond in kind after a while. It was—not pleasant.”

“I can imagine,” Zach replied quietly, and Vivianne took a deep breath.

“And that—that was just the start. Everyone in the family … Great-Aunt Laurelle and Great-Aunt Dindrane say that I’m not expected to take anything over yet, but try telling that to the rest of them. Throughout the reception, I … could feel them all pulling at me. Even Uncle Victor …” Vivianne shuddered. “And he’s not even a Gorlois!”

“Uncle Victor …?” Zach asked.

“Professor Yaxley’s father. He is—was—Grandmother’s brother. He and Grandmother did not get along – and that put him on the outs with most of the clan. But I could— _feel_ him trying to pull me over to his side. And …”

“You don’t want that,” Zach replied.

Vivianne shook her head.

“Then why is he even trying with you?” Zach asked. “I mean—even I can tell that you and your grandmother were close. Can’t he?”

Vivianne snorted. “It’s probably because of—”

The word stuck in her throat.

_Was_ it because of her mother? She’d always assumed that – always assumed that she was allowed into Uncle Victor’s good graces because her mother had never left them. But what if it wasn’t that at all?

What if it was because of her father—or her father’s family?

_Bullock._ She wouldn’t forget the name. But it wasn’t one that stuck out to her. There were many Death Eaters – there could have been one by that name. There could have been dozens by that name. She just didn’t know.

Would Uncle Victor have known? If anyone had known Vivianne’s father’s name, surely Professor Yaxley would have. If she had told Uncle Victor …

Vivianne shuddered and slapped her hand over her mouth. If Uncle Victor _knew_ – if _that_ was the reason why he’d always been kind to her—

Her grandfather had _fought_ Death Eaters; her grandfather wasn’t supposed to _be_ a Death Eater—

“Vivianne?” Zach asked. The desk creaked slightly as he edged closer to her. “What’s wrong?”

Vivianne closed her eyes and shook her head. But she had to say something. So she forced the nausea and the panic down, down where they wouldn’t bother her.

“I—I heard an argument—between Mother and Aunt Elaine. They didn’t know I was anywhere near—not that I think either of them would have paid much attention even if they _had_ known, I mean, _Rowan_ was standing right there and they still laid into each other—and they were tossing insults—about the past—and I found—I found out some things—some things I hadn’t known.”

Zach let go of her hand to slowly, carefully put an arm around her shoulders. He moved like he expected Vivianne to take shy and toss the arm off. Maybe he did.

But Vivianne didn’t. She didn’t take the lead. But she let him put the arm around her, and when Zach tried to hold her closer, she allowed herself to lean against him.

“It was about …” Vivianne started, but she couldn’t go on. She couldn’t force the words _my father_ out. It was too foreign, too wrong. She had gotten along well enough for sixteen years without a father; why did she need one now?

Besides, all she had now was a name – and a very abbreviated life story, mostly consisting of words she wished she had never heard. _Azkaban. Unforgiveables. Snatcher._

She might not have been an expert on the subject, but she was fairly certain it took more than that to make a man a father.

But she had to say something, even if she couldn’t—wouldn’t—tell the whole story. If she never told the whole story, it would be too soon. “Let—let me put it like this. Zach, I get the feeling that you and your father … do not have the world’s best relationship.”

Zach almost chuckled. “Now where did you get that idea?”

A flicker of a smile crossed Vivianne’s face, but it was gone almost in a second. “Before—before yesterday—I didn’t even know—mine’s name. And now …” Vivianne shook her head. “I don’t know whether to wish that someone—Grandmother—had told me sooner, or …”

_Or to wish I’d never found out at all._

* * *

 

Whatever she’d heard – it was so far past bad as to be earth-shattering, and there wasn’t a damned thing that Zach could do. Yeah – sometimes giving voice to things that were hurting helped. It let one pour out all the poison locked up inside, bring it out so it wouldn’t fester, twist, and rot. But sometimes – just like purging an infected wound – there was all this stuff that had spilled out without one having any idea how to deal with it.

But Vivianne was looking like she needed him to say _something_ , and damn it, what did he really have? If you stripped away unhelpful platitudes? He was the one who had brought them here.

“I can’t pretend I know—knew your grandmother,” Zach said. “But from what I’ve heard, she was pretty much the type of person to meet challenges head on, unless there was some reason why that wasn’t the best course of action.” _Gee, you’re still dusting off your cliché collection, there, Zachary. Maybe you can try “it’s for the best” next._

He ignored that little internal voice and continued on. “So, if she didn’t tell you … I guess that this was something she felt _she_ couldn’t or wouldn’t be able to help you face that way. Even your grandmother had to have things she locked away and put in dark corners, hoping they would sort themselves out before—well, before she had to deal with them.” Jon was so much better with this – sorting things out – helping people with logical explanations.

Glancing at Vivianne, whose shoulders were so knotted and tensed it practically hurt to look at her, Zach rubbed one hand along her shoulder with his palm, testing the tense spots with his thumb. Peering around at Vivianne’s face, he saw that she’d closed her eyes and leaned just slightly back into the stroke.

“If I knew you were this good at backrubs,” Vivianne muttered as Zach turned slightly and brought his other hand up to her other shoulder, “I totally would’ve trapped you in the prefects’ bath wearing only a towel long before now. I need this.” She groaned in a way that was just shy of sensual as Zach found a tense spot.

“Call it my way of making up for putting my foot in,” Zach told her. “I was the one who picked the talking route.”

“I am not,” she paused and arched her back toward Zach’s palm, “going to blame you. Not when I can blame my mother. Maybe you wanted to talk about it—but—my mother …” She trailed off with a sigh. “At the end of the day, my mother _fucked_ him. Case closed.”

Zach nodded, even though wasn’t sure how he expected her to see him; he was more or less behind her at this point.

“Now I’ve put my foot in, somehow, haven’t I?”

“Just—I’d rather not blame my mum for my dad, ‘sall,” Zach admitted. “My mum blames herself enough for my dad.”

“See, but she at least regrets her relationship with your dad. My mother?” She shook her head, her plait knocking into Zach’s hand as she moved. “She doesn’t have the self-awareness to regret anything she’s ever really done. She regrets all the ways everyone around her failed, but when it comes to culpability, that chair’s got more of it than Morgause Dindrane Gorlois.”

“I am so sorry, Vivianne.”

* * *

It risked straining the muscles that Zach had worked so hard to work the kinks out of, but she dared a glance behind her. But Zach looked sincere. Of course he did. He _was_ sincere.

Still, Vivianne forced a shrug. “It’s hardly your fault,” she answered. “Frankly it’s not the fault of anyone in this school. Or Scotland, even.”

“I can still feel sorry.”

A slight smile flickered across Vivianne’s face. But it didn’t feel right to say anything, so she didn’t.

She waited as Zach worked the stubborn knots out of her back, focusing on breathing deeply and letting all the tension and aggression that had been building since Thursday leave her. Her swim had helped, but this … this …

This might actually do something.

Her mind wandered, as minds would, over their conversation. What she had been able to say, and what Zach had said in reply.

She blinked.

“Zach?”

“Hmm?”

“For—for whatever it’s worth—I wouldn’t blame your mother for your father either.”

Zach paused. “You’ve … never even met my mother.”

“Well, no,” Vivianne admitted, “but …”

_She raised you,_ while true, was a bit … much. There was something to be said for playing one’s cards close to the vest, certainly at first. So Vivianne shrugged. “You’re aware that Frida talks about everyone on your island, right? At least all the witches and wizards,” she hedged. “Knowing Frida, she only thinks of the Muggles in terms of target practice … anyway, she has quite creative insults for practically everyone. But your mother is the only one I’ve never heard her say a cross word about.”

Vivianne glanced over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow at Zach. “If that doesn’t qualify her for sainthood, somebody needs to look into updating those qualifications.”

Zach snorted, but it was with a smile as he shook his head. “Do I even want to know?” he asked.

“What’s she’s said about you? The rest of your family? No. No, you don’t.” Vivianne hesitated, before adding, “And you most emphatically do not want to know what she’s said about Jon McIntosh.”

“That much I already knew,” Zach muttered.

“Don’t worry. If I catch her bad-mouthing you or Jon after this, she’ll have several nice hexes headed her way.” Vivianne tilted her head back and tried to grin at him. “I might not be much for giving out massages, but _that_ I can do.”

Zach raised an eyebrow. “Are you certain that hexing people is going to solve all of your problems?”

“ _All_ of my problems? Merlin, no. Not even most of them. Most of them … if it gets to the stage where I have to hex someone, it means that all other attempts to solve the problem have failed. Unfortunately,” Vivianne sighed, “Frida is the sort of problem that starts at that stage.”

Zach chuckled, shaking his head, but he didn’t argue the point.

As for Vivianne, she let the conversation lapse, concentrating on simply enjoying Zach work out the last few knots. “Ooh,” she moaned, “that—Zach. That was _good_. You worked out knots I didn’t even know I had.”

“Feeling better?” he asked, leaving off the massage.

“Oh yes. Much.” Then, glancing back almost shyly, she added, “Thank you.”

“No trouble,” Zach replied.

“No trouble, he says,” Vivianne answered. She hesitated … but then she scooted over, leaning against Zach’s side. For his part, he seemed more than happy to put his arm around her and hold her close.

“First blanket forts,” Vivianne murmured, “then being—a gentleman, then a massage … what else is going to be no trouble, Zachary?”

“It really wasn’t any trouble,” Zach demurred. “You seemed like you needed it, that’s all.”

“You’re spoiling me right out of the gate,” Vivianne answered, eyes sparkling. “Tell me there’s something I can do to return the favor.”

Zach’s eyes went wide. But that was the thing about the pale skin that went with reddish hair – it showed a blush very easily. And even though the flush was brief, Vivianne still saw it.

She smirked. “Or maybe I can think of something?” She brought her free hand up to his cheek, stroking it.

“Wait—Vivianne—I did _not_ mean—”

“I know you didn’t,” Vivianne interrupted. “I _do_. Trust me. But, Zach … we are in a classroom, not the bathroom; the door is locked; and we are both fully clothed. If you think I am letting you get out of here without a good snog, you have another think coming.”

Zach laughed. Sure, there was another blush to go with it, and he scrubbed at his hair and Vivianne had to fix it, but he laughed.

That was the end of their conversation. Because Vivianne had not been kidding. And at the end of the day …

There were more pleasant ways to spend a Sunday morning at Hogwarts than in painful, difficult conversations.

_Much_ more pleasant.


	31. Chapter 30: Ain't It Funny How Rumors Spread?

**Chapter 30: Ain’t It Funny How Rumors Spread?**

“Dude, what kind of question even _is_ that?” Ben asked as he held the door to the Great Hall open.

“An honest one.” Kenny shrugged, his bright orange hoodie standing out even amongst the casual clothes worn by those exiting the Great Hall after lunch. “It’s a classic thought exercise.”

“Do you know what those two are arguing over?” Carrie asked Ringo, who was smoothing his ‘stache – which looked like a toddler had taken an eyeliner pencil to his face while drunk.

“Vaguely. They’re both movie characters,” he answered. “Though if you’re asking why anyone would care, that I can’t answer.”

“Besides, it’s completely unfair. Legolas has had how many years to practice the bow? Hawkeye is _human_.” Ben rolled his eyes.

“So you’re saying that Legolas would be better due to being an elf.” Kenny smirked and shoved his hands in the kangaroo pocket, his whole expression smug.

“I’m saying that if Legolas is better, it’s because he’s had more time to practice,” Ben told him. “And that it’s an unfair comparison.”

“Ugh, you two are such—what’s the word?” Carrie asked.

“Geeks?”

“Dorks?”

“Muggles.” That last one came in from one of the Slytherins not far from where they were standing.

“Is it just me, or do Slytherins seem to spend an inordinate amount of time bringing blood status into things that have _nothing_ to do with blood status?” Selena shook her head, glaring at the kid, who was adjusting her green cashmere sweater.

“Well, they might have a point; most people who are unused to Muggle culture are unlikely to be sitting around arguing movie characters.” Kenny shrugged.

“And/or comics slash literary characters,” Ben pointed out. “But seriously, that’s how much exposure you have to Muggle culture; it has nothing to do with what your blood status is.”

“Yeah, that’s what people who don’t have any blood status think.”

Ben could feel his teeth grinding in his skull. Yelling at the kid was pointless; if she wanted to cling to antiquated views and classism, nothing big, dumb Gryffindork Moore was going to say would change her mind. He might as well try to shame the clouds out of the sky.

So instead he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and shook his head and turned to head up to the library – where hopefully Rowan would find him when she got finished being mobbed by her friends, all of whom would want to reassure themselves that Rowan was okay.

“I think Beryl asked you a question, Moore.” Probably, barring Yaxley and Rove, the voice he wanted to hear least of any in the entire school.

“Nope. She made a statement, James. And rather than argue with someone who isn’t going to change her mind if I gave a plea as impassioned as an R&B singer doing the ‘Star Spangled Banner,’” Ben told his cousin without even bothering to turn around, “I was just going to let her keep her opinion. She’s entitled to one. They’re like assholes that way.”

A faint gasp went through the students.

“Watch your language!” James gasped, his voice prim and attempting stern, missing it, but attempting it nonetheless.

“Belly buttons, then – everyone’s got one and most of ‘em are pointless.” Ben rolled his eyes, turning back to face James. The Slytherin prefect was dressed in a black cardigan with a gray scarf tied somewhat like an ascot and dark gray cargo pants, contrasting wildly with Ben’s Red Sox jersey over a black waffle shirt, battered jeans worn with a big-ass rodeo belt buckle, and shit-kicker boots.

“Still – why don’t we hear about _your_ blood status, Moore?”

“What’s there to talk about? It’s none of her business, and you already know enough.” Ben shook his head.

“I guess I do. It was bad enough, your mother getting involved with that—that _American_ ,” James snarled.

“Even my grandmother – my _maternal_ grandmother – thought that ‘those Americans,’ includin’ my frickin’ Muggle as baseball-an’-hotdogs uncle, could do a better job raising me than she could,” Ben rumbled right back, with a bit of thunder in his tone. “It wasn’t jest cause my dad’s family woulda fought her for me. I’ve seen the actual paperwork on custody; she didn’t even frickin’ _contest._ ”

“She _should have!_ Better you were one of us than—than whatever you’re supposed to be.” James threw his hands up. “You’re throwing away everything you are for a little half-blood chit. Your lineage stretches straight back to just after the Arthurian era!”

“For a girl whose lineage stretches back further than that. And, oh, golly gee – I’m not a dickwad, not a jackass, an’ not dumber than a cowchip.” Ben shook his head. “Yeah, I turned out _so bad._ ”

“And just what are you implying?” James was trying to look impressive. It, unfortunately for Jamesie, was sorta like putting an anorexic male model next to a Mr. Universe candidate. Does not compute or something like that.

“Nothing. Jest go find a ditch an’ die in it, thanks, Jamesie,” Ben told him. He didn’t want to talk about this; he definitely didn’t want to talk about it in front of the whole school – what was between him and Grandmother Corbie was between them.

“Don’t walk away from me, Moore.” James took his wand out of his cardigan—seriously, he was wearing a fucking cardigan like Mr. Fucking Rogers and trying to be scary. It might have worked for Freddy, but James didn’t have a scarred up face and a knife glove.

“It’s better than hexin’ your ass into next week. Choice is yours, Fawley.” Ben sighed. He really didn’t want to lose any more points for Gryffindor, but he was done talking about his family.

“Moore!” _Ugh—bad to worse!_ He pounded his forehead with his fist before going into a full on facepalm. There was Yaxley, looking like she’d been hit by a bus. Hungover didn’t quite encompass the haggard look on her face – it was more like ‘70s era George Jones after a week’s bender.

“I’m going to Lipskit’s office,” Ben said before she could say anything more than that.

“Don’t walk away from me!”

“Slytherin needs some new lines; that’s what he just said,” Ben said, not turning around, not looking over his shoulder.

Ben made his way up to the familiar chairs outside Lipskit’s office, throwing himself into one of them, still sort of seething. _Where do they get off, really? I mean_ really _?!_ _There was nothing wrong with my father’s family, despite being American. Since when were good, honest, hardworking people the very, very worst thing to be descended from – besides Muggles?_

The door to Lipskit’s office opened a moment later. It wasn’t Lipskit. The sound of shiny shoes accompanied it; you never heard Lipskit unless he wanted you to.

“Ah, Monsieur Moore—what brings you here?”

_Fuck. Me. Sideways!_

“I came up before Professor Yaxley could send me up,” Ben answered to the scuffed toes of his boots.

“Fighting, then?” Bellerose sneered. “Of course, you Americans are like that, _non_? All fight and fire, I piss fireworks and explosions.”

“Which is something you Frenchies wouldn’t understand, right? Too busy _running away_ and looking for _white flags_.” It was out of Ben’s mouth before he really thought about the fact that mouthing off to a TA was a bad idea.

“And poor Mademoiselle O’Blake thinks this is all the better she can do. The poor girl. Her prospects must be dismal indeed.” Bellerose’s tone was the same sort of simper that came when someone had thought they’d just delivered a burn.

“And yet, her taste still hasn’t sunk to _your_ level.” _Now, Monsieur Bellerose, that would be closer to a good burn._ “Least I’m not a man grown chasing _jailbait_ , dude.”

“Monsieur Moore!”

“Don’t dish it out, honey, if you can’t take it.” Ben laced his hands behind his head and stretched his legs out. Maybe the casual posture would inspire a casual attitude. It was worth a shot. Ben knew that Lipskit was in the other room – now, he was pretty sure that Bellerose was at least as far down Lipskit’s shit list as Ben was, but he’d rather not have to _depend_ on that.

“Honey?” Bellerose asked incredulously.

“Darlin’? Dear? Boo?” Ben drawled. Bellerose just stared at Ben.

“Ah, M. Bellerose. Good to see you again.” It might have been a good thing that Bellerose hadn’t ever attended Hogwarts, or he’d never have bought that tone out of Flitwick. “Professor Lipskit notified me that you needed a signature for your return to the ruins?”

“I would prefer to see Professor Rove.” Bellerose raised his chin haughtily.

“I’m afraid Professor Rove is otherwise occupied and will be most of the day,” Flitwick refuted with a shake of his head. “Why is that you need to speak to the headmaster?”

“Monsieur Moore was behaving threateningly—and addressing me in terribly inappropriate ways.”

“Wait, I what?” Ben interrupted. He might have been pushing it with the Boo comment, but threateningly? How?

“Threateningly? Are you certain? That seems—most out of character for Mr. Moore,” Flitwick asked, glancing at Ben and winking his far eye, timed so Bellerose wouldn’t see it.

“Professor,” Bellerose said. Even if he didn’t physically roll his eyes, he did so audibly.

“I’m sorry, M. Bellerose. I’ve been a professor long enough to know that half the things that a boy does that might be considered threatening are really anything but. And well, Mr. Moore is—not a small young man, obviously,” Flitwick said.

“So you’ll do nothing?” Bellerose said sourly.

“There is _so much_ hearsay; if I listened to it all …” There was something about the way he trailed off that made it seem almost threatening. Ben continued to stare at his boots, face carefully blank. Bellerose might think he was smart – but he was not head of Ravenclaw smart – not by far.

* * *

After she unpacked her things and assured her friends that she was fine, hardly heartbroken, and completely unhexed, Rowan headed to the library. She said she had studying to catch up on, and she did.

She also wanted to take another look at the book – the _Historie_. And the library was the safest place to do it. If she tried to look it over in the common room, somebody would ask what it was and where it was from. If she tried to look it over in her dorm, well, the fact that Rowan was spending waking hours in the dorm room would be news enough.

But in the library? Nobody looked twice at a student nose-deep in an old tome in the _library_. Really the biggest risk was that Madam Pince might assume the book was Hogwarts property and give Rowan a hard time if she left the library with it – and if all else failed, she could turn the book invisible to get around that.

There was all of that … and the fact that she thought Ben might be in the library. She didn’t quite dare to find her way to Gryffindor Tower, since there were always a few Slytherins with more spells than sense lurking nearby, waiting to start something. The last thing she needed was to end this weekend in the hospital wing, belching slugs.

But Ben wasn’t in the library. Rowan had a look around all of the tables, especially the ones by the window that she knew Ben favored. There was no sign of him.

Tamping down on disappointment, Rowan found a table by the door – ignoring Madam Pince’s glares at her for not sitting down already – took a seat, and stared at her bag. Studying, or book?

Her hand hovered over the book …

But it never closed on the spine. Rowan heard rushing footsteps – looked up—

Candice trotted into the library. She glanced sidelong at Madam Pince – who was glaring, of course – before she caught sight of Rowan and scooted into the chair across from her. “Hey,” she whispered, “your boy’s in trouble. Fawley decided to start some sh—stuff with him, and of course Yaxley walked in right in the middle.”

“Oh, n-no,” Rowan whispered back. She slung her bag back on her shoulder. “W-w-what happened?”

“Ben cut the yelling short and went up to Professor Lipskit’s office … well, I guess that’s not cutting the yelling _short_ …”

Rowan clucked her tongue and shook her head. “At l-least he’ll only g-g-get it once,” she sighed. And she got up.

“Yeah,” Candice said, falling into step as Rowan hurried out of the library. “I wonder why Fawley decided to go off on Ben, though? I mean, don’t get me wrong, Fawley’s an arse, but he always struck me as being above the petty Gryffindor-Slytherin bickering.”

“Apparently B-B-Ben and he are r-r-related,” Rowan replied. “S-s-second c-c-cousins.” She blinked and added, “But d-d-don’t let that g-g-get around.”

“Huh? Why not?” Candice asked. “And for that matter, how the _hell_ is Ben related to _James Fawley_?”

“I t-t-told you—s-s-second c-c-cousins,” Rowan answered, trying to keep the smile from poking out and failing. “B-b-but as f-f-for why n-not – would _y-you_ want everyone in the s-school to know _y-you_ were r-r-related to James F-Fawley?”

“Oooh.” Candice hissed. “Touché, Rowan, touché. Still … poor Ben. D’you think we should get him a sympathy card or something?”

“If we g-g-get Ben one, J-J-Jon and Z-Zach are g-g-going to b-b-be wondering where _theirs_ are,” Rowan pointed out. To say nothing of Quill. Or even … Vivianne.

Candice hissed again. “Ouch. You bring up another great point … Rowan, why do all of us come from such asshole families? I mean, mine isn’t bad, not really, except in that generic ‘annoying relation’ way – but Jon’s and Zach’s dads – and all of Quill’s mum’s side – and _your_ mum’s side …”

“Yeah,” Rowan muttered, staring at her trainers as they made their way down the corridor.

They didn’t say much of anything else until they arrived near the corridor where Lipskit’s office was. But before they rounded the corner, they heard something.

“So you’ll do nothing?”

Rowan froze. She’d know that accent anywhere …

“There is _so much_ hearsay; if I listened to it all …” That was Professor Flitwick. But—but what was he …

“What—” Candice started, but Rowan put a hand over her mouth and that was that.

Rowan listened—but she couldn’t hear anything more than mutters, then two sets of footsteps receding into the distance. Away from them, thankfully. Rowan let out a deep breath.

“You ok?” Candice asked after she pushed Rowan’s hand away from her mouth.

Rowan nodded. But all the same – before she turned around the corner, she carefully looked.

Professor Flitwick and Mr. Bellerose were already gone.

But Ben wasn’t. He sat in one of the chairs outside Professor Lipskit’s office, head in his hands, rubbing his temples as if he felt a headache coming on.

“B-B-Ben?” Rowan asked, trotting toward him.

Ben looked up. He blinked. He smiled. “Hey.”

Rowan hurried closer. She didn’t ask him what was wrong, not right away. She meant to give him a quick kiss on the cheek first—

But maybe Ben turned his head—or maybe Rowan just misaimed, because that was always a possibility—but whatever it was—Rowan didn’t kiss his cheek.

_Ooh—_

_Mmm …_

“And on that note,” Rowan heard Candice say, though the voice seemed to echo as if it was coming from a long way off, “I have homework to do.”

Rowan managed to vaguely wave in what she thought was Candice’s direction.

Eventually, though, she had to pull away – and blush – and push her glasses up her nose, even as Ben’s hand hadn’t quite left her, and was lightly playing with her hair. “H-hey,” Rowan whispered.

“Already said that,” Ben pointed out, smiling slightly. “So. You survived?”

“I d-d-did,” Rowan replied. Part of her wanted to just lean in again and forget about this whole talking thing – it couldn’t possibly be _that_ important, whatever it was they had to say – but the rest …

The rest was all too aware that they were standing outside of Professor Lipskit’s office, and snogging right there was asking for a detention – or else some very acerbic comments, which might very well be worse.

So with something like a sigh, Rowan dropped to the chair right next to Ben. She almost missed, but luckily Ben was quick enough to grab her shoulder before she hit the floor. “Th-thanks,” she said ruefully, shaking her head.

“No problem, Gracie.”

“G-G-Gracie?”

Ben simply raised an eyebrow.

And Rowan got it, and blushed. But she giggled. “I g-g-guess I am—r-r-rather g-graceful, in a t-t-totally opposite w-w-way.”

“Pretty much jest what I was thinkin’, darlin’,” Ben replied.

There was that accent again, thick enough that Rowan wished she had brought pruning shears or a few Severing Charms with her. Rowan scooted a little closer to him, reaching for his hand and holding it. “What’s w-w-wrong?”

Ben snorted and shook his head. “Fawley. And … Monsieur le Pew.”

“W-w-what—w-w-what d-d-did he d-d-d-d-do?” Rowan stammered, and she didn’t have to clarify exactly which _he_ she was talking about.

Ben, for his part, simply shook his head. “Oh, there was the usual round o’ insults. Him implyin’ that I’m a trigger-happy American, me pointin’ out that he’s one o’ the cheese-eatin’ surrender monkeys … an’ then, o’ course, he had to go below the belt, an’ straight out say that you were scrapin’ the bottom o’ the barrel, goin’ with me …” Ben leaned back, trying to look casual and carefree, but Rowan could see too much tension in the shoulders and feel too much in his hand to be fooled. “O’ course, at that point, I pointed out that at least _I’m_ not goin’ after jailbait, an’ he didn’t have much o’ a reply to that, which means, I think, that I won.”

He smiled at her, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Oh—M-M-Merlin,” Rowan murmured. She seemed to feel that she should say something else, but really, what was there to say?

_Maybe I should just quit the class … if Mr. Bellerose is going to be going after Ben to get him to lose his temper … Professor Rove’s already got it out for Ben as it is …_

But before she could say anything, or even tease the idea a bit more, an almost bemused voice from overhead interrupted her thoughts.

“Cheese-eating surrender monkeys? That’s a new one,” Professor Lipskit said.

And Rowan stared, though not at Professor Lipskit’s face. She watched his hip pocket instead. Because it was— _moving_ …

Before Rowan could do more than stare, a small, pointed little face poked out, framed by fawn spikes. _A hedgehog? Or maybe a Knarl?_ Rowan wondered.

But what was it doing in Professor Lipskit’s pocket?

She decided she wouldn’t be asking.

“Not all that new, sir,” Ben replied. “We’ve been callin’ the French that ever since they didn’t have our backs in the Iraq war.”

“Ah,” Professor Lipskit nodded. “Well, that’s cleared up, then. Any reason why the two of you are taking up these chairs?”

“I came up here to talk to you, sir. Before Professor Yaxley could send me,” Ben answered.

“And why would she send you?” Professor Lipskit asked.

“Probably because I told James Fawley that he could either let me walk away or be hexed into next week,” Ben admitted.

“Probably?” Professor Lipskit repeated, one eyebrow going up.

“Well, I don’t want to be disrespectful, Professor, but if there’s anyone who fully understands how Professor Yaxley’s mind works – it ain’t me.” Ben shrugged, one of those powerful shrugs that Rowan tried and usually failed not to stare at.

She failed today.

“Fair enough,” Professor Lipskit replied. “I take it there’s more to the story than that?”

Ben nodded.

Without another word, Professor Lipskit stepped slightly to the side and gestured Ben into the office. Giving Rowan’s hand one last squeeze, he went in.

“And you, Ms. O’Blake?” Professor Lipskit asked.

“Oh—I—um—h-h-heard B-B-Ben was in t-t-trouble and w-wanted to m-m-make sure he was—ok.” Rowan was blushing, but she knew there was no help for that. “D-d-do y-y-you mind if I j-j-just s-s-stay here, s-s-sir, until you’re d-d-done? I’ll j-j-just be s-s-studying …”

“If you prefer to study in a cramped chair in a corridor, far be it from me to stop you,” Professor Lipskit answered. The hedgehog or Knarl in his pocket chittered. Rowan got the distinct feeling that it was laughing at her.

Without another word, he disappeared into the office, closing the door behind him. Rowan gave up on any hope of eavesdropping – she’d heard that Professor Lipskit could hear everything that went on outside the office, even with the door closed, but that particular magical power only worked one way. Or with one person.

She turned back to her book bag. Her hand went for the _Historie_ —

And stopped.

No, reading the _Historie_ in the middle of a corridor, where anyone could see her, was surely suicide.

With a sigh, Rowan took her Charms textbook out of the bag and flipped to the next chapter they were due to be studying.

It couldn’t hurt to get ahead of things.

And right now, it certainly beat thinking.

* * *

“Fancy meeting _you_ here.” Sybilla’s voice might have been sarcastic, but it held a note of welcome that Zach didn’t usually equate with her. It probably wasn’t directed at him, but rather at Vivianne, who had found him again not long after lunch when he’d been on his way to his friends’ weekly take-over of the student lounge nearest Hufflepuff’s common room.

Even having been warned that the room would contain Krem, Shae, and Claudia, Vivianne had still wanted to come.

Sybilla _sometimes_ came to these, seeming to act like this was some form of thought experiment, put X in Y situation and observe, usually with as many acidic comments as could be legitimately offered. Maybe they were. Zach would pass on asking – at least until he knew Sybilla better.

“Hello, Sybilla-dear,” Vivianne purred with a bit of a smirk.

“I see the rumor mill, being far from idle, is also correct. And here I hadn’t even guessed.” Sybilla smirked in return.

“You hadn’t? This seems most unlikely.” Vivianne tapped her chin with one finger.

“Maybe a little.”

“You know, this is really not terribly nice of you two,” Shae commented from the table where she was tucked under Krem’s arm, potions book and notes spread out in front of her. “I thought Claudia hung out with us because she didn’t want to hang out with Slytherins. Now, thanks to you,” she pointed at Spencer, who pushed his glasses up his nose with a look of amusement; then she leveled her finger at Zach, “and now _you,_ there might actually be less Slytherins in their common room than in this room.”

“Considering how many of my fellows are currently in the infirmary or being morons, lying in wait for Gryffindors, you might be right.” Claudia tapped her quill on a blotting paper “Even James almost lost it this morning. And _he_ has been telling everyone to knock it off—probably since Hogsmeade weekend.”

Vivianne and Sybilla shared a glance.

“So what do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Duncan?” Shae said.

“Sorry, I’m not sorry?” Zach shrugged. _I like Vivianne, and if my friends can’t accept that …_ Maybe he’d start hanging out with Jon—though that could be uncomfortable for Rowan. Still, between Candice, Quill, Aubrey, Blair, and Jon himself, he and Vivianne would be the least of the characters in that group.

“Nah, it’s cool,” Claudia said, pushing a chair out with her foot. “If we can take these two,” she jerked her chin at Shae and Krem, “we can take another couple of Slytherins. Just—no hex wars?”

“I think we can manage that.” Vivianne took the seat next to that one, which was also the one right next to Sybilla.

“At least we’ll ascertain that you truly deserve it before we start handing out hexes,” Sybilla said with a formal nod.

“Good, thank you. We shall do the same.” Shae nodded formally to Vivianne, with a second nod for Sybilla. “Now, if you don’t mind, Spencer, this whole process is a little vague.”

“It’s less the process is vague and more …” Spencer broke off and looked at Vivianne, who looked back mildly interested. “Well, Yaxley was distracted, I guess would be the best explanation. Her mind was on—other things. The process is sorta complex here.”

“So, based off my notes, what am I doing wrong? It took three showers to get the smell of the last failed potion out of my hair.” Shae pushed her notes at Spencer.

“Ah … here, here, and here.” Spencer circled with his quill.

“Also, while she’s technically correct here,” Sybilla said, pointing to one of the lines, “I’ve found that a clockwise stir, after every third counterclockwise turn, makes the whole thing more homogeneous, and it’s more stable for long-term storage.”

“True—but it’s better to stop before a full clockwise turn because too far will make the final product brittle,” Spencer pointed out. Shae quirked her eyebrow at him. “If you start your clockwise turn at twelve, stop at no later than ten so final carryover of that stir won’t go past two. Nine is better.” Spencer batted his lashes at Sybilla.

“Okay … and you said here. What’s wrong with this chunk?” Shae asked.

Krem shot Zach a smile from across the table. Vivianne was watching the whole thing with what seemed to be royal disinterest, except for the way her eyes shot to Zach occasionally, as if she couldn’t imagine that a group of vastly dissimilar students could just shrug and let the Queen sit at the table like it … was nothing, like she was just another student. Zach squeezed her hand, and she smiled at him.

Titan twirled a drumstick around the back of his hand, occasionally thumping it on the arm of the chair, as he scowled at his History of Magic text.

“So—uh—excuse me, ladies,” Trevor asked, running his hand through his brown curls. “But—you do know James better than we do. Any—you know—insight into why he was, uh, acting that way?”

“Beg pardon?” Sybilla’s brows drew in sharply, and Trevor practically shrank into the chair behind his own heavy History of Magic text.

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s all right that you asked,” Vivianne said.

“I’m just afraid I’m not certain what you _mean_ ,” Sybilla finished. Vivianne nodded in agreement.

“Just—didn’t going after Ben seem a little—I don’t know—out of character for James?” Trevor lowered the book slightly when the wands remained sheathed.

“Like he was trying to get Ben to admit something,” Titan offered, before reaching out to tap Trevor on the head with the drumstick.

“I can’t pretend to know everything about James’s mind,” Vivianne said slowly.

“But they’re probably related.” Sybilla shrugged. All eyes shot toward the two of them.

“I know to a lot of people, it’s not important.” Vivianne took a slow deep breath and the hand that was clasping Zach’s under the table tightened.

“But to some people, it still very much is,” Sybilla finished, very quietly. She was looking at Spencer with something that—almost seemed like _sorrow_ on her face. “And that belief …” She trailed off.

“It can—change things for people.” Vivianne sighed.

“But—why—even if James and Ben were related—would it matter to James about Ben?” Titan asked. “It’s not like James seems to—you know— _care_ about Ben outside of anything not blood related.”

“That’s a very good question …” Vivianne trailed off looking at Sybilla, who shook her head.

“But we ain’t got an answer,” Sybilla finished.

“Ain’t? Did I just hear Sybilla Cromwell say ‘ain’t’ in a rather grammatically questionable setting?” Shae stage-whispered to Claudia and Krem.

“I don’t know—did you?” Claudia rolled her eyes.

The door to the lounge burst open before any more questions could be asked, and in stalked Juliette; her dark brown eyes smoldered angrily and her hair, usually well tamed with potions and straighteners, was rather wild, a corkscrew curl poking almost straight up. Zach was never exactly sure why, but Juliette seemed to rather detest her natural hair texture, and so corkscrews were – almost always – a sign of “bad.”

Juliette paused for a moment to stare at Vivianne, before throwing herself onto one of the squishy couches.

“I. Am. _Done_ ,” she announced, scowling at what looked like a burn hole in her pale pink jumper. “A person, even a prefect, should be able to walk down a hallway without dodging six jinxes and two particularly nasty hexes.”

“If that hole is any indication,” Sybilla drawled lazily, “maybe you need to be dodging more.”

Juliette looked at her, another chunk of hair escaping from her headband and starting to coil up. Then she started to speak – rapidly and heatedly – in French. Sybilla and Vivianne stared at Juliette and then at each other – and Zach, who admittedly spoke enough French to ask for directions to the restroom and for “that” to be repeated in English, guessed she was probably swearing.

“I’ll have to remember that one for Mother over holiday,” Vivianne muttered to Sybilla.

“I _wish_ I could use that one on my mother—but she’d use a Severing Charm on my tongue. While I might need a _little_ more practice on my non-verbal spells, well,” Sybilla replied the same way.

“Juliette,” Trevor said, reaching out a hand and laying it on the fuming prefect’s arm. “What happened—preferably in English for those of us whose French is … non-existent? My family holidays in Spain; I didn’t learn French.”

“Your bloody housemates,” she pointed at Shae and Krem, “and yours,” the finger turned to Vivianne and Sybilla, “are out of their bloody fucking minds! I had to rescue _five—_ cinq— _five_ firsties, _Ravenclaw firsties_ , from the middle of an all-out hex battle in the middle of the hallway, because one of _your_ wand-happy compatriots,” Juliette’s finger was still pointed at the Slytherins, “thought he saw ‘the hapless half-blood.’” Her tone was mocking to the point of just shy of cruelty. “And those two little bitches who’re always hanging around for your scraps, your majesty, were egging them on.”

“In non-Juliette speak, that would be one of our fellow Slytherins thought he saw Rowan, probably tossed a few hexes her way—they most likely were somehow intercepted by a group of Gryffindors—and Frida and Trish were laughing and egging the whole thing on—while this all endangered a group of random first-years who happened to be in the same hallway,” Claudia filled in.

“ _Oui_ ,” Juliette dropped her head back against the couch. Then she said something in French that Zach couldn’t even begin to translate.

Vivianne leaned toward him. “She said now she’s going to have to ask her mother for more pocket money because no daughter of _hers_ would walk around in a jumper with a hole in it. And it’s not like this was a two-sickle Madam Malkin’s special.”

_Ah,_ Zach mouthed.

“You can have the money Vivianne gave me for …” Zach trailed off at Vivianne’s quirked eyebrow. “My mum already sent me a new school sweater,” Zach muttered to the table.

“Vivianne. You can’t treat Hufflepuffs like Slytherins, darling,” Sybilla drawled. “There’s far less bone in your average male Hufflepuff’s head than our _dear_ compatriots. Be gentle. Be kind.”

Vivianne burst out laughing.

“No, I’ll ask my mother, Zach. If my choices are offend my mother or royalty—well—I have nothing to offer her majesty,” Juliette told him. “I am still done, though. These hex wars have _got_ to stop.”

* * *

“You know, tirades in French and the acquisition of new vocabulary notwithstanding,” Sybilla said as she and Vivianne made their way back to the common room, “Juliette did have a point.”

Vivianne sighed. “I’m aware of that.” What she was less aware of was what they were supposed to do about it.

And it had to be them. The prefects – when they even bothered to try – were not containing this mess. And now James was adding to it. It was time to bring this to an end.

Vivianne rubbed a temple. She was feeling it again – the pressure that had mounted on her yesterday, the knowledge that there were problems that she had to fix, even if she hadn’t the faintest idea how to begin. She had dealt with it yesterday by hiding in her bedroom until the reception was over. But here in Hogwarts …

There really was nowhere to hide.

She took a deep breath and felt Sybilla watching her.

“You know,” Sybilla said slowly, “I can always hex the next person who is foolish enough to start something. It’s a bit crude and will lose us more points in the short run, but I daresay people will get the message rather quickly.”

Vivianne shook her head. “No. There’s no need for you to fall on your sword. Even if …”

They were approaching the entry to the common room, so Sybilla said the password. “Even if what?” she asked as they made their way in.

Vivianne responded by raising an eyebrow. “Even if we both know that you’re half the reason why things are blowing up as they are.”

“Half?” Sybilla snorted. “I’d say more like a third.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think so. We all know that this nonsense started at Halloween, when _you_ started walking out with your Hufflepuff. I didn’t start walking out with _my_ Hufflepuff until today,” Vivianne said.

Later, she would wonder if she should have saved that comment until they got to the relative safety of their dormitory. As it was, she was completely unprepared for the accusation that flew toward her.

“So it’s true, then?”

But a Gorlois woman never let merely being caught off guard slow her down for long.

So slowly, Vivianne turned to Blake. He was lounging on a sofa, sullen and scowling. Around him was a group of other fifth, sixth, and seventh-year boys. James wasn’t one of them, which probably explained why Blake had spoken at all.

His scowl was hardly attractive. He looked more like a petulant child who had just been denied a sweet than a man heartbroken because the woman he cared for had deserted him for another man. What had Vivianne seen in him, again?

She raised an eyebrow, then deliberately turned to Sybilla. “Who won the game yesterday?”

“Ravenclaw, as it happens,” Sybilla answered. There was a faint amused light in her eyes, but it was gone as soon as she blinked. “And to add insult to injury, Claudia caught the Snitch – and the team can’t even blame her for catching it too soon, since the Ravenclaw Seeker would have had it if she hadn’t swooped in when she did.”

“Ah,” Vivianne nodded. She didn’t go so far as to say, _I’m not surprised_ , but she doubted there was a person in the common room who hadn’t heard it.

“And maybe you’re a bit to blame for that,” Antony snapped.

Vivianne turned to him with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, bloody hell, Vivianne, don’t give me that look. Breaking up with him two days before the game?” Antony snorted. “You could have at least waited to drop him until after the game.”

“Interesting,” Vivianne deadpanned. “While I do see your point, slightly, I am forced to point out that if I hadn’t broken up with Blake, I probably would have hexed him into the hospital wing. Is that what you would have preferred?”

Sybilla snorted. “Based on the way Blake was flying yesterday …”

“Did anyone ask you?” Blake snapped.

“Well, no, but I usually don’t bother to wait to be asked. If I waited until I was asked, I’d never get a chance to share what I’m thinking.”

Sybilla grinned at Blake and he turned to the side, scowling.

Vivianne waited, but no further comments seemed to be forthcoming. She caught Sybilla’s eye and nodded toward their dormitory.

She barely made it five steps before Blake called out, “So I take it is true then, since you didn’t answer. You and the prettyboy Hufflepuff prefect.”

Vivianne did not go stiff. She had been half-expecting this. This, after all, was Blake’s style.

She did turn around – slowly, deliberately, using the few seconds it took to map her plan of attack. “And the quote ‘prettyboy Hufflepuff prefect’ would be …?”

Blake’s eyes blazed. “How many other prettyboy Hufflepuff prefects are there? Zachary Duncan.”

“Blake, you honestly can’t expect me to have any idea about your taste in men,” Vivianne tutted. “As for whether Zach and I are dating, well, yes, we are.”

She shrugged as if what she said was hardly surprising and not at all the equivalent of dropping a dungbomb into the middle of Wizengamot proceedings. Of course that wouldn’t fool anyone for a second – and by the gasps that rang through the common room, it didn’t.

“So _that’s_ what you’re going out with?” Blake snorted. “Merlin, Vivianne. I had no idea you were that shallow.”

The eager “ _Oooh_ ” seemed to come from every corner of the common room at once.

Vivianne tilted her chin up, the better to look down on Blake. “Blake, if I wanted to be shallow, I never would have broken up with you.”

“Oh!!” That seemed to come from the same place as the _oooh_ had.

Blake sat up. “Excuse me?”

“Zach is good looking and pureblooded, yes, but trust me, I’m well aware that those two traits, even in combination, count for relatively little in this house,” Vivianne answered. “You, on the other hand, are every shallow girl’s dream: good looking, pureblooded, wealthy, well-connected, and of course, a Slytherin. The fact that you have the personality of a frog’s behind …” Vivianne shrugged. “The shallow girl won’t mind that, I assure you.”

Blake’s jaw fell – but after a second, he tossed his head back and laughed. Vivianne couldn’t have been the only one to hear every false note. “Are you telling me you’re going out with him for his _personality_? Merlin, Vivianne, who the fuck do you expect to believe that?”

“I really don’t care who believes it,” Vivianne shrugged, surveying her nails. “That’s the lovely thing about the truth, you see. It keeps on being true whether one believes it or not.”

“Is that it, then?” Blake asked. Vivianne watched him narrowly as he sat up, every muscle tense and coiled. “Is that how you’re going to play it? _Fine_. We’ll see how attractive his _personality_ is after I—”

And Vivianne’s wand was out. Steady, unwavering, and pointing right at Blake’s heart.

Every one of the boys on the couch near him – and several who weren’t near him at all – edged out of the way.

“Blake, if you hit Zach with so much as a Cheering Charm,” Vivianne said, her eyes not leaving Blake’s, “I swear on my grandfather’s grave that I will make you wish you had never been born.”

“Heh,” Blake replied. The reply was snorted out, but Vivianne would have been blind not to see the fear lurking in his eyes. “I’d like to see you bloody try.”

Vivianne shrugged. “As you wish.”

And struck.

One quick slash of her wand was all it took. There was a flash of purple light, and Blake went flying across the room. His movement didn’t stop until he slammed into the wall opposite, right above a group of studying first years.

The first years dashed out of the way, leaving Blake nothing but the hard floor to fall on.

He groaned.

“Shall I continue?” Vivianne asked. She twitched her wand and Blake was dragged to his feet.

Blake’s hand went for his pocket – his wand—

“ _Expelliarmus_!” That was Sybilla, and Blake’s wand flew from his pocket into her waiting hand. “Now, now. Let’s not let things get out of hand.”

“Bloody— _hell_ ,” Blake panted. “Two on—one?”

“Blake, Blake, Blake,” Vivianne shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Don’t act like such a … _Gryffindor_. They’re the ones who believe in fair play. Not us. But … you do have a point.” She sighed. “It _is_ rather unsporting to use spells on an unarmed man.”

Vivianne twitched her wand again and released the spell that had dragged to Blake to his feet. To no one’s surprise, he crumpled to the ground.

She turned to Sybilla. “Are you going to give him that back?”

“Oh, not right away,” Sybilla said. “He’ll only do something stupid if I give it back to him now. If not to you, then to Zach … or another Hufflepuff … or a Gryffindor … or frankly, even a Ravenclaw at this point.”

“True. And letting Blake lose more house points for us is the last thing anyone wants,” Vivianne answered. It was meant to forestall an argument, if one had been coming.

It must have worked, because nobody protested.

Vivianne turned around again, Sybilla falling into step with her. This time, she was only a few steps away from the passage to the girls’ dormitories when Blake called out again.

“Can I get any help here? Bloody hell! Are you lot going to let them get away with that?”

“Yes,” replied Miles. “Hate to disappoint you, mate, but we like living.”

Vivianne allowed herself the ghost of a smirk.

It vanished as soon as they rounded the bend that put them out of sight of the rest of the common room. “… Sybilla?”

“Yes?” Sybilla turned to her with a raised eyebrow. Then her eyes narrowed. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, fine,” Vivianne said, waving the concern aside. “Just—you’re right. As usual. This nonsense has to stop.” She took a deep breath and tried to think.

She had it. Finally.

“Sybilla? Any chance you can do that Disarming Spell nonverbally?”

Sybilla stared at her. “Of course.”

“Good,” Vivianne nodded. “Because I think we need to talk to Niketa …”

She shook her head and sighed. “And this is a conversation that will be much easier to have if she doesn’t have her wand.”


	32. Chapter 31: ... Truce?

**Chapter 31: … Truce?**

Vivianne’s plan came in three parts. Talking to Niketa was the first part. It was also the easy part. They didn’t even have to disarm her. Niketa had been more than willing to listen and quick to agree with the rest of the plan. She, too, was of the opinion that this nonsense had to stop.

The next part of the plan, calling a house meeting, was also relatively simple. Technically, only prefects were allowed to call a full-fledged house meeting, and generally they only did so at Professor Yaxley’s or the headmaster’s insistence – but there were ways of getting around that. In this case, Vivianne and Sybilla went to Claudia and explained the situation, more or less. Claudia had raised an eyebrow, but she collaborated with the rest of the prefects to set up the meeting for Tuesday directly after dinner. She was even thoughtful enough to let each of the prefects think that one of the other prefects was calling the meeting.

That left the third part: the hard part.

Stopping all this nonsense.

So when Tuesday evening came, Vivianne and Sybilla made sure to take seats at the sofa nearest the fire. Niketa was already there, frowning at her Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook. She smiled at Vivianne and Sybilla when they sat down.

Vivianne smiled back, because she expected that would be the last smile she’d be seeing for a while.

It did not take long for everyone to show up. Blake was still with his knot of boys, looking sore (mentally and physically) from the confrontation on Sunday. Frida and Trish were giggling together over … something. Cornelia and Belle brought magazines.

Everyone else seemed to be waiting for this to be over.

The prefects knotted together close to Vivianne, Sybilla, and Niketa’s sofa. “So are you going to call this thing to order?” Roderick ask Tisiphone.

“Me? Why would I call this thing to order? You called the meeting! I don’t even know what it’s about,” Tisiphone protested.

“But I didn’t—” Roderick started.

“None of us did,” Claudia interrupted. She pointed at the sofa. “They did.”

Vivianne, Sybilla, and Niketa waved.

Tisiphone’s eyes narrowed. “But you said …”

“No, I didn’t,” Claudia replied. “I most carefully did not say anything of the kind. You may have assumed it, but, well, we all know what happens when you assume things.”

“What,” James replied.

“But since we’ve already taken the trouble of gathering the whole house, we might as well hear what they have to say,” Claudia went on. “Especially since they have a plan to stop the point hemorrhaging. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t work my tail off on the Quidditch pitch to watch a bunch of wand-happy idiots ruin it all.”

She turned to James with a sickly-sweet smile. “Don’t you agree, Captain?”

James scowled but didn’t argue.

“It would be nice to not be dead last in points,” Annis mused.

“Really nice,” Silvius agreed.

If Tisiphone and Roderick wanted to argue, they were officially outnumbered. And by his expression, Roderick had less than no interest in arguments. He turned to Vivianne, Sybilla, and Niketa and bowed. “Ladies – the floor is yours.”

Tisiphone crossed her arms and scowled, but no one was paying attention to her. Not when Niketa was clambering onto the back of the sofa, only to sit quite primly once there. Her black-and-green striped leggings made a striking contrast against the flat black leather sofa back.

Vivianne opted to stand, though Sybilla joined Niketa sitting on the back of the sofa.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Vivianne said, because the three girls had agreed with minimal arguing that Vivianne would be the principal spokeswoman in this operation. “I’m sure we all have better things to be doing this evening, so I will be brief. This stupid hex war with the Gryffindors needs to end. And it needs to end now.”

She followed that up with a glare to a couple of knots of the worst offenders – ending with Blake and his friends.

“I’m sure you’ve all seen where we stand in the house points race,” Vivianne went on. “Dead last. The only consolation in this entire mess is that we’re dragging Gryffindor down with us, but not as far and not as fast. If it keeps going on like this, the house cup is going to be decided based on which will win the most points – being too damn nice for your own good, or being too damn smart for your own good.”

She turned to Sybilla. “Meaning no offense to anyone present, of course.”

“None taken,” Sybilla replied, smiling.

Vivianne looked back at her compatriots. “And I’m sure we don’t want to see that: not only would it be a blow to the honor of Slytherin, it would also be the most boring house race that has been run in years.”

That, at least, got a couple of chuckles.

“So the hexing needs to stop,” Vivianne went on. “We’ve made our point. If we keep going with this stupid – forgive me – pissing match—”

“This is bull!”

_And here it comes,_ Vivianne thought.

She turned to the speaker with a raised eyebrow. It was a fourth-year boy, August Ross. His nostrils were flaring, and he had his arms crossed over his chest.

“Your bloody cousin is the reason why we’re doing this!” August went on. “And now you say we have to stop? You haven’t even taken any risks yourself!”

Vivianne blinked twice – mainly for effect. Then she knit her brows, again for effect. “I’m sorry,” she replied, “when did I ask anyone to get themselves thrown into detention, the hospital wing, or worse, simply because my hapless half-blood cousin happened to find a boyfriend?”

“You don’t have to bloody ask! You should know—”

“I should know _what_?” Vivianne interrupted. “Look—August—unlike some people, I like to take the long view. My cousin is already a stain on the family’s honor, and she’s been excised from the clan since before she was born. However, I doubt I’m going to get her to agree to take a vow of celibacy, so her tossing her hat after a nobody American wizard is probably the best I’m going to get.”

She watched James out of the corner of her eye. As she had expected, James winced.

So that answered that question.

“So explain to me, August,” Vivianne continued, “why would I want to screw that up? Why would I want _anyone_ to screw that up?”

Vivianne tossed her hair, put her hands on her hips, and raised her eyebrow.

She waited.

As she had expected – as she had intended – August had no answer to that.

“Right,” Vivianne went on. “As I was saying—”

“Maybe this isn’t about the hapless half-blood, Vivianne.”

Vivianne tilted her chin up and turned to the speaker. “Oh? And why would you say that, Cornelia-dear?”

Cornelia had risen to her feet, the magazine tossed to the side and quite forgotten. She had her hands on her hips and her nostrils flaring. “Mostly because of the backup you brought with you.” She nodded at Sybilla and Niketa. “And the fact that, you know, even the most wand-happy of us aren’t fools. What does it matter to us whether the hapless half-blood gets a boyfriend – even an American Mudblood Gryffindork boyfriend? However, watching our own housemates slum around with half-blood Creampuffs? And … keep company with half-blood Gryffindorks?”

“As it so happens,” Niketa said – and the way she seemed to examine her wand as she said it could not be coincidence – “Booker and I are dating. However, I do not appreciate you calling him a Gryffindork – that, I think, is not very polite.”

Cornelia’s eyes were practically alight. “And it doesn’t bother you that he’s a half-blood?”

“No?” Niketa sounded almost puzzled, although there was no way she could have lived for nearly six and a half years in the Slytherin dungeons without knowing exactly how most of their denizens viewed anyone whose ancestry was less than perfectly pure. “Frankly, even my mother will not be bothered by that. So I do not see,” she spun her wand between her fingers, “why it matters to anyone here.”

Cornelia stared at Niketa. Then she snorted. “Well, you’re foreign. You wouldn’t—”

“I beg your pardon?” Niketa’s words were close to being clipped – dangerously so, if Vivianne was any judge. “I was born in England. I have been in England longer than _you_ have been in England.”

“My people came over with the Conqueror!” Cornelia snapped.

“And mine came over with the bloody Romans at the very latest,” Vivianne retorted. “Cornelia, do not get into a battle of ‘who is more British than who.’ You. Will. Lose.”

“Then shall we get into the battle of ‘who is more Slytherin than who’?” Cornelia asked. Her hands were clenched in fists at her sides – and luckily, her wand wasn’t in either of them. “Because I don’t think you’re on as firm footing there, Vivianne! None of you are!”

“Oh, really?” Sybilla asked. She raised an eyebrow, lazily, as if the conversation was barely of any interest to her. “And how is that?”

“Then men you’re dating! _Merlin_! I can’t be the only one furious about this!” Cornelia shouted.

Vivianne glanced around the room and saw that Cornelia was quite correct.

Good. Best to get it all out now.

“You’re betraying everything we stand for, and—and— _why are you looking at me like that_ , Sybilla?” Cornelia almost shouted.

Vivianne turned to see Sybilla watching Cornelia with her chin resting in her hand, her face almost puzzled. “Oh, I’m just confused,” Sybilla replied. “I wasn’t aware that you were interested in dating any of the three of us.”

Vivianne was not at all surprised to hear the gasps and titters that came from every corner of the room – especially the younger corners.

Cornelia gasped, probably because she realized where this was going. “ _Sybilla_!”

“Because if you’re not interested in dating us, then I don’t see how it matters to you whom we date,” Sybilla went on. “Honestly, I’d expect this kind of nonsense from Blake, not you. At least _he_ can claim he was tossed over for a Hufflepuff. I mean, he’d be wrong – but he can still claim it.”

“Sybilla, stop it.” That was Belle, rising to her feet and glaring. Belle was probably the only one brave enough or foolhardy enough to do that. “I agree with you three about the hexing. It needs to stop. But it doesn’t need to stop at the expense of us having a huge fight!”

“On the contrary, Belle,” Vivianne replied. “The only way it’s going to stop is if we have the fight. All of us. If we finally drag out what’s been bothering us, we can deal with it and put an end to this nonsense once and for all.”

Now Belle glared at Vivianne. It wasn’t a terribly intimidating glare – Vivianne had stared down worse – but the trouble with Belle’s glare was that it made you feel guilty, not afraid.

The only way Vivianne knew how to deal with guilt she didn’t know how to expiate was to deny it existed, so she did that.

“I’m not talking about the house, Vivianne! I’m talking about _us_!” Thankfully, she turned her glare onto Cornelia now. “And that goes for you, too! I am not going to let you tear our friendship apart based on _men_! By—by most standards,” and now Belle was starting to blush, “I’m just as much a half-blood as Spencer or Booker! My _mother_ is a half-blood!”

Cornelia hissed. “That’s different, Belle!”

“How so?” Belle put her hands on her hips. “If Jamesie can date me, why can’t Sybilla date Spencer – or Niketa date Booker?”

“Oh yes.” Sybilla rested her chin on her hand and watched Cornelia with an expression that bordered on glee – or at any rate schadenfreude. “Do explain that, Cornelia.”

“You— _she_ —” Cornelia started.

“There are lots of half-bloods in this house, Cornelia,” Belle said slowly. “I am far from being the only one. And even those of us who can call ourselves pureblood – well, we’ve all got half-bloods knocking about in our family trees. After all, Vivianne, haven’t you said that the families that only married in purebloods are all dead or completely insane by now?”

Vivianne blinked. She had said that, more than once, but she was surprised that Belle of all people would remember it. “Er—yes.”

“So I think we all need to take a deep breath and get over ourselves,” Belle went on. “Cornelia, you need to stop worrying about Sybilla’s dating life. Be happy that she’s dating someone! We were all worried that the first man she’d date would be some rich old perv her mother set her up with because he’s got the right fortune and bloodlines and—”

Belle broke off with a gasp. “Oh, Sybilla! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, don’t be sorry,” Sybilla waved her hand. “I used to worry about that myself.”

Belle grinned, but the expression winked out almost as soon as it appeared. “And—and Vivianne, Sybilla—I expect better from the two of you! Boys come and go, but friendships are supposed to last!”

“Er—” Sybilla started.

“And don’t tell me she started it! Everyone in this room knows that Cornelia started it! _You two_ need to be the bigger people!” Belle put her hands on her hips and glared.

Then she turned around and leveled that glare at the rest of their housemates. Vivianne was not exactly surprised to see that many people suddenly found their shoes, book bags, etc. to suddenly be of great interest.

“As for the rest of you,” Belle went on, “Vivianne, Sybilla, and Niketa are right. The hexing has to stop. And if it doesn’t, I shall be very disappointed in all of you!”

Then, flipping her hair over her shoulder, Belle stormed toward their dorm room, head held high.

“Bloody hell,” whispered Silvius. “Where’d she learn how to do that? I feel like my mum just reamed me out …”

There was a general chorus of murmured agreement.

“Probably from watching her mother,” Sybilla answered. “Belle, unlike several of us that I can name, actually has a _good_ relationship with her mother.”

“Indeed,” Vivianne murmured, leaning against the sofa. “But I think Belle has said everything that needs to be said. Ladies and gentlemen, if there are any more … unprovoked hexings of Gryffindors or their ilk, here is what is going to happen. Sybilla and Niketa will be angry, and they may choose to express that anger with hexes. _I_ shall be heartily displeased, and trust me, you don’t want to deal with my displeasure. And Belle will be—disappointed. You are free to argue among yourselves over which of those is the worst, but I believe that all three are excellent reasons to abstain from starting nonsense with Gryffindors. Now. Are there any questions?”

There were no questions.

“Excellent. Meeting adjourned.”

And as the Slytherins broke up the meeting – some heading to dorms, some finding places to study, some simply turning to friends and starting to chat – Vivianne stared at the ceiling.

That had not gone how she was planning. At all.

But at the same time … she couldn’t find it in her to complain about the results.

* * *

“It’s snowing again.” Candice stood on her tiptoes and peered out the nearest window.

“I-I k-k-know,” Rowan admitted as the wind made a whistling sound blowing past the castle, looking at the broom in her hand.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come?” Jon asked, also peering out the window.

“I’ve g-got your b-b-broom,” Rowan admitted.

“And haven’t you got plans?” Candice waggled her eyebrows. “Like curled up with your handsome boy sucking face plans?”

It was then that the trio of Ravenclaws seemed to notice that quintet of Gryffindors by the door. Candice kind of winced, evidently expecting some sort of response out of them.

“… What?” Kenny finally asked.

“You, uh …” She rubbed at her ear, displacing hair that had been relatively neat and now stuck straight out; it gave her a sort of punk-rock Einstein vibe. “You _heard_ that.”

“Yeah?” Ringo rubbed at the break on his nose.

“I t-th-think w-what C-Candice is g-g-getting at is—um—m-m-m-most p-p-people would have s-s-some s-sort of r-response to a b-b-b-boy c-c-c-curling up with a _b-b-boy_ for the evening,” Rowan looked down and at her feet, knuckles white on the broom, her finger rubbing over a bit of engraving that looked like a dedication, maybe? A signature?

“Better him than me?” Ben asked of the assembled boys who nodded in agreement.

“But you’re from _Texas_!” Candice gaped.

“Whu-huh?” Ben replied.

“One day we’ll have to get him to tell us how to make that sound.” Kenny muttered to Ringo, who shook his head.

“I’m pretty sure that’s one of those sounds that we’ll never be able to make. Sorta like how none of us can pull off a y’all.”

“What does my being from Texas have to do with better Jon curling up with a handsome boy and sucking face than me curling up with a handsome boy sucking face—or for that matter me curling up with Jon, I’m pretty sure Rowan would object to that though.”

“I’ve _heard_ about Texas,” Candice plowed on with determination.

“You’ve heard about Internet Texas—and as Jeff Foxworthy pointed out, Southern people just can’t keep the most ignorant amongst us off the television. Judging all a’ Texas by what you hear on the Internet would be like judging all of the wizardin’ world off the Slytherin Quidditch team,” Ben drawled.

“Ooh, do you think we should be offering cold water and burn potion to any of the Slytherins nearby?” Kenny joked.

Ringo smirked. “Heck, I’m not so sure that Candice couldn’t use a little burn potion herself. After all, which is worse – being the idiot, or being the one who _believes_ the idiot?” he asked.

“C’mon, guys,” Booker’s sensible Irish brogue broke through. “Let’s not be the house of jerks for like five seconds.”

“I’m still not sure why my being Texan has anythin’ to do with why ‘better him than me’ is the wrong thing to say there.”

“You unleashed Dubya Bush on the world.”

“In much the same way you unleashed Moldieshorts. Or Austria unleashed Hitler. Just cause he’s _from_ there don’t mean we wanna stick flags in his ass an’ claim him,” Ben pointed out to irreverent snickers. “Besides, Obama won the election. Dubya is a lame duck.” Ben looked around as if searching for something.

“W-what?” Rowan finally took the bait.

“Oh, just waiting for a legion of ducks on crutches to come mob me for being associated with _him_.” Ben smirked. “I get what you’re saying, Candice. Because I’m from Texas, obviously my politics should be in the too conservative for fire, anti-woman, anti-gay, anti-anything-but-white-upperclass-mensfolk camp. Which, they aren’t.

“Even my Uncle Chester, who is Muggle as Wonderbread sammiches, doesn’t care who you want to do. His wife can turn his favorite recliner into a duck. He knows about lovin’ someone who is ‘different.’ An’ that ain’t even gettin’ into my aunt and my cousin. Desi’s all for gay sex—means more sex an’ less patriarchy. Everybody wins—even, theoretically, the patriarchy …” Ben smirked with a shrug.

“So, guys, are we playing Quidditch, or listening to Ben talk about shagging?” Cameron asked, switching his own broom to his other hand. “Even if it is turning both Candice and Rowan a charming shade of crimson.”

“It’s snowing,” Candice pointed out.

“That means nobody’s in the pitch,” Ringo pointed out.

“Thus it’s perfect,” Kenny seconded.

“Oh, I give up on you,” she stormed off, muttering.

“Wow, that took a whole ten minutes longer than I thought it would,” Ringo deadpanned.

“Well, if you don’t want me to come with you, Rowan, just—be careful with the broom. There’s no guarantees your mum will be so kind as to give me another.” Jon rubbed his neck. “And—you know.”

“I k-k-know—and I p-p-promise, if I b-b-b-break it, I will d-definitely b-b-buy you a new one.” Rowan gave him a one armed hug. “It’ll be m-my f-f-f-fault, after all.”

“And make sure you double check everyone’s cloak-warming spells—I need more pranks to break up the countdown to holiday homework crunch.” Jon returned the hug with both arms before turning to head out, and that left Rowan in the hall by the door with just Ben and his friends.

“At least someone appreciates our hard work.” Cameron smirked. “Even if …” He trailed off.

“Even if?” Rowan asked, looking around curiously.

“Well, there might not BE a crunch week prank,” Booker told her. “Rove—well—let’s just say between the Gryffindor-Slytherin hex wars and that unfortunate flagstaff incident, we’re not his favorite house.”

“I don’t think we’re in the top five of his favorite houses,” Ringo muttered to the flagstones.

“B-b-but—t-t-there are only _f_ - _four_ houses,” Rowan told them.

“Exactly,” Ben and his friends said together.

* * *

A Quidditch game in the snow was not likely to be an idyllic interlude of calm and comfort. Rowan’s fingers were so far past numb that they had turned painful and tingly, never mind the gloves she’d worn. As for her toes, Rowan could only hope they were still where she had seen them last.

But they’d _won_!

Or at least, the girls had. The boys had been – not _trounced_ – but they had definitely been beaten. Even playing as they had – five on a side, no Seekers and short one Chaser – the victory had been definitive.

And now Rowan could concentrate on warming up. They had grabbed one of the lounges on the first level of the school, not far from the kitchens, but Rowan wouldn’t mention that she knew that. Kenny and Ringo had disappeared in search of hot chocolate, leaving their girlfriends Donna and Carrie on one of the sofas without them. They were giggling over … something. Reminiscing about the game?

Rowan had Conjured a rather large beanbag chair over by the fire, and she and Ben were sharing it. If she’d been any bigger, there probably wouldn’t have been enough room, but she wasn’t, and they were just close enough to be comfortable.

Besides, having Ben next to her was a bit like having her very own space heater, so there was that advantage as well.

Cameron and Selena shared a loveseat, also close to the fire. Booker and Niketa each had their own armchair, but unless Rowan was imagining things, every time she looked in their direction, their armchairs were just a little closer together.

“It could have hit me right in the head, Selena,” Cameron was saying. “You could have killed me. Think about that.”

“Oh, come off it, you big baby,” Selena said, rolling her eyes and lightly shoving Cameron. “Nobody ever got killed by a Bludger hit. And if it makes you feel any better, I was aiming for Kenny.”

“You would have killed _Kenny_?” Cameron gasped.

“You bastard,” Ben murmured with a chuckle, only loud enough for Rowan to hear – more feel, given the way Rowan was leaning against his side, his arm around her shoulders.

And he might not have been the only one. “Did you just call Selena a bastard?” Niketa asked, staring at Booker.

“What?” Selena echoed.

“She almost killed Kenny!” Ben said in Booker’s defense.

“I am sorry,” Niketa said, looking from one boy to the next – even Cameron, who was rather conspicuously not upset that Booker (and Ben) had called his girlfriend a bastard. “I do not follow.”

“It’s this—thing they do,” Donna explained, pushing her hair behind her ear. “Whenever something—bad happens to Kenny, they all shout, ‘You killed Kenny! You bastard!’”

“Who killed Kenny?” Ringo asked, coming into the room with a tray of hot chocolates.

“Those bastards!” Kenny echoed as he came in with his own tray, which only had a couple of hot chocolates but also had a plate of cookies on it. “What?” he asked the people who stared at him. “I never get to say it.”

“That’s because you’re always dead at the time, Kenny,” Booker pointed out. He waved his wand at the tray, floating a hot chocolate over – which he promptly handed to Niketa. That seemed to be the signal for everyone else to Summon their own mugs.

“Thank you,” Niketa said, taking the cup. She cast a quizzical glance at Kenny and the rest of the boys. “Does this … happen often?”

“What, Kenny dyin’? At least once an episode,” Ben replied.

“But don’t worry; I got better,” Kenny said, flopping to the sofa next to Donna and putting his arm around her.

Rowan giggled. “That only w-w-works if …”

And everyone was looking at her. Rowan’s throat went dry.

But she swallowed, and took a deep breath, and swallowed again, “If—you’re—um—t-t-turned into a n-n-newt.”

“Kenney has been turned into a newt?” Niketa asked, eyebrows raising. She turned to Kenny. “When did this happen?”

“Oh—um—n-n-no,” Rowan stammered. Was it her imagination, or was Ben holding onto her a little more tightly?

She glanced up, and he winked at her. Not her imagination, then.

Rowan turned back to Niketa, who didn’t look murderous at all – or even particularly annoyed, only curious. If her headscarf had been any set of colors other than green and silver, Rowan would have told herself that she was being quite silly. “It’s—it’s f-f-from a M-M-Muggle m-m-movie— _Monty P-P-Python and the Holy G-Grail_. There’s a s-s-scene where s-s-some v-v-villagers s-s-say they have a w-w-witch, and they’re t-t-trying to p-prove it, and one of them s-s-says—”

“She turned me into a newt!” Kenny said, doing quite a creditable impression of John Cleese.

Then, when everyone turned to stare at him, he glanced at his feet. “I got better.”

Rowan collapsed into giggles and collapsed against Ben.

“An’ that,” Ben said, coming to Rowan’s rescue, “is what happened in the movie.” He glanced down at the still-giggling Rowan. “Though I gotta say, I never pegged you for a Python fan.”

Rowan looked up, adjusting her glasses and raising one eyebrow. “B-b-but I’m B-B-British. And I’m a n-n-nerd.”

“Yeah, so is everyone else in this room,” Ben replied.

“Hey!” Carrie protested.

“ _British_ , Carrie – an’ the only people I see laughin’ are you, me, an’ Kenny.”

“Hey, that’s not true,” Ringo protested. “I’ve seen that movie, too. I thought it was funny.”

“Yeah, you saw it at my house. Doesn’t count,” Kenny pointed out.

“Not quite. Bill showed it to me first.” Ringo shrugged.

_Bill?_ Rowan wondered, glancing at Ben.

“Older brother. Muggle,” Ben clarified.

Rowan nodded.

“So what happened to the witch?” Selena asked. “In the movie.”

There was a distinct silence that came from the general direction of Rowan, Ben, Kenny and Ringo.

“Um, well,” Kenny was the one to break it, “they might have—maybe—burned her. But not on camera!”

Selena’s jaw fell; Rowan heard at least one gasp; and there were many sets of wide eyes as she looked around the room.

“Seriously?” Carrie asked. “Just because she turned one guy into a newt?”

“And he got better!” Niketa pointed out.

Now would _not_ be the time to mention that, in all probability, John Cleese’s character had never spent time as a newt in his life, so Rowan didn’t.

“It … it’s funny in context …” Kenny said, a little weakly.

“M-m-maybe we sh-should talk about _L-Life of B-Brian_ instead,” Rowan murmured.

“Oh, God, no, that’ll just open up a whole other can of worms!” Ringo gasped.

“But he’s not the Messiah!” Kenny pointed out.

“He’s a—” Ben started, trying to imitate Terry Jones.

He stopped.

“I’m sorry. That ain’t gonna work. Rowan? You wanna try?”

Rowan blushed—but she tried.

“He’s a n-n-naughty b-boy!”

It wasn’t even close. Closer than Ben’s, maybe, but only in the way that Mars was closer to Pluto than Earth was.

But based on the way Ben, Kenny, and Ringo laughed …

It was close enough.

* * *

“Nobody wants a birthday on Monday.” It was Zach’s most important birthday on record – at least ostensibly – and of course it would be a Monday. He came of age tomorrow, but as he had often done when his actual birthday fell on a school day, he was celebrating at the nearest weekend. The day before, in this case. That meant his favorite lounge, the one with the squishy, earth-colored sofas and mossy chairs, was filled to the brim with most of his favorite people in the world.

There were pockets of uneasiness as things shifted; Rowan and Jon seemed more than a little uneasy about Vivianne’s place ensconced at his side, even if they both kinda covered it the same way, cramming themselves—and Ben and Austin—onto one sofa, the two of them squished into the middle. Rowan, at the moment unaware she was being watched, was describing something vividly, swooshing her hands in the air and almost smacking both Jon and Ben in the face at times. But it was Jon’s fault they were sitting that close, and Ben was apparently very good at dodging gesticulation.

“And then Niketa p-pulled this turn, I’m not sure how her broom didn’t break.” Rowan grinned in admiration. “She and Booker are b-both very quick, but—Niketa took more chances.”

“I’m not sayin’ we don’t play to win,” Ben told her. “But Booker is—very steady. I can’t claim to know Niketa well, but I get the impression people probably don’t view her the same way. Although, didja know that Booker has been the mastermind behind some of our greatest pranks?”

“Really?” Vivianne murmured.

“Oh, hell yeah. Booker is the one who does dumb things like say something can’t be done; that, Ms. Vivianne, is a challenge if I ever heard one.”

“So who came up with the Free Hugs one?” Jon grinned. “That one was one of my favorites.”

“Nah, that one was me – not knowing we’d lose Gryffindor a point for _every_ damned headmaster statue in the whole damned place.” Ben shook his head.

“What? Why?” Jon asked peering around Rowan.

“Because Filch had to go around to every statue in the castle and remove the sign.” Krem sighed dramatically.

“Is that why someone dressed Mrs. Norris up as a bunny for Easter, then?” Quill asked from where he sat on the floor on a pillow between Jon and Rowan’s knees.

“Contrary to popular belief, that wasn’t us.” Ben shook his head. “I think that was Peeves.”

“Whose idea was it to run Rove’s pants up the flagstaff then? I still love that.” Candice was sprawled on another couch, or rather on the back of the couch behind Aubrey and Blair’s heads.

“That would be Cameron. Although I’ll cop to upping the glitterage—seriously, I might’ve added a little bit of light, but his drawers already had spangly stars on ‘em. And I wanted the ‘Star Spangled Banner,’ but nobody else knew it, so we went with ‘God Save The Queen’ instead.” Ben rubbed the back of his neck. “It probably wasn’t our best idea; pretty sure Rove wants to see us out of school almost as bad as he wants that portrait of Dumbledore moved out from behind his desk where it makes snide comments about Rove needing a sense of humor.”

“So why do you do it, then?” Blair asked, crossing her legs and resting her head on Aubrey’s shoulder as if tired. Even Krem and Shae seemed to peer a little closer at Ben, leaned a little forward.

“There’s so much,” Ben said, looking out into the room, somewhat above everyone’s head, “we can’t control. Family, friends, the future, love. It’s—cathartic. Who gives a flying mouse on a cheese-wheel tire if life’s gone all to fudge when you’re standing in front of a room full of people who are laughing? Ironically, we probably need the pranks now more than ever, and we’re under so tight of supervision that we can’t even do ‘em.” Ben shook his head, his broad shoulders rippling with a shrug that Rowan seemed to press into.

“So we’re not going to get a holiday prank?” Trevor sighed. “You guys have always made the holidays bearable with those.”

“I wouldn’t count it out. We’re better, but we’re not cured of stupid impulses—nor the need for that catharsis.” Ben shook his head. “An’ well, Rove can threaten and bark an’ bite all he wants, but the truth is Hogwarts isn’t the only wizarding school out there—and with our grades and-or family connections, most of us could probably get in somewhere else. If not, well, we do have a standin’ invite to go work for the Weasley Bros. Meh, we keep hearin’ that everyone wants to see a holiday prank. Hell, even Professor Kilduff made mention of it after class when I was helpin’ her move some ol’ books.”

“Really?” That was Sybilla, who had been silent up until now. Her face was unreadable, at least Zach couldn’t read it, but she seemed … “overwhelmed” was not the word – “bemused”? Was that better? – by the group of people who had assembled in the lounge for Zach’s birthday.

“I could see it,” Vivianne murmured. “Professor Kilduff has a great sense of humor. Though who knows why she’d waste it on Gryffindork pranks …”

“Well, as a verra wise man once put to song, I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints, Ms. Vivianne.”

Rowan looked at Ben for a moment, the puzzlement of someone who knows but can’t place something clear on her face. Ben in turn slid his hand into the beat-up jeans he was wearing and pulled out a small piece of leather.

He held it one hand doing an odd pushing up motion with his thumb.

“You have a spellpod?” Jon asked.

“My aunt knows that you restrain me to British wizarding radio and I’m likely to go nuts—more nuts.” Ben offered half a smile. “Ah! Here we go.” He hit something on his spellpod, and the room was suddenly alive with the strains of a piano. “The original was Billy Joel. But this is the version I have, even if it makes a tad less sense in the cover.”

A deep, smokey, aching woman’s voice filled the room a moment later. Zach bit his lip; he could see why Ben said it didn’t make as much sense, but that wasn’t the weird thing. The weird thing was that, listening to the woman sing, he didn’t _care_ that it didn’t make sense. She had one of those voice that straddled the dichotomy between an angel and someone very much of this world. There was a pain and a … longing in every note.

“Wow,” Shae murmured after Ben shut the spellpod off.

“Who was that?” Titan asked with reverence.

“That’d be Aimee – Ringo’s mom.” Ben sighed.

“I knew she was a singer, but …” Shae trailed off, poking at the leather stitched to the knees of her leggings.

“Yeah,” Ben agreed. “Someone says: ‘My mom’s a singer.’ That could be ‘my mom does karaoke at the bar on Thursday nights when everyone’s too plowed to notice a bad song,’ or that could be ‘my mom’s the auditory version of Babe Ruth,’ or uh …” Ben paused. “Um, somebody really famous and good and wizarding? All the examples I’ve got are from my side of the pond.”

“Do you think I could get a copy of that song?” Titan asked.

“You’d have to ask Ringo; I got mine from him, but I bet he’d be cool with it. He likes remembering his mom’s talent more than her—troubles.” Ben sighed.

“So,” Jon grinned at Zach. “When are we watching you open loot?”

“You just want my mum’s cookies that come before presents.” Zach stuck his tongue out at Jon, who shrugged, forever unrepentant. “As soon as...”

The door opened and in came Juliette, one arm holding a gift, the other basically frog-marching Caid.

“Sorry we’re late,” she dismissed, exaggerating a French accent. “‘Tis fashionable.” She waved her hand. The one, he noticed, with the present in it. Thankfully, that just floated.

“Now that Juliette’s here, we can get started with Jon’s favorite part.” He grabbed the two boxes of cookies from by his chair, passing them around. A flurry of waves and mutters conjured plates and napkins; Sybilla even conjured a pair for Haley and Miri. Though whether that was kindness to the two first-years or just to show off that she could conjure hers _and_ someone else’s in the time it took the rest of them to sort out their own, well, Zach wouldn’t guess.

“Yes!” Jon stage-whispered jubilantly. “Try these—and these—and these—and maybe these if you like caramel,” he muttered to Austin, who looked a little overwhelmed.

“Don’t you think …?” Austin asked looking into the box.

“I know Wendy—she always makes enough cookies to feed not just an army, but both sides of a war.” He grinned. “You can take four.”

“I have more boxes in my dorm,” Zach reassured him. “These are just for this, so if you eat them all, it’s fine.” And he did. When his birthday came around, his mother ended up borrowing every owl on the island to deliver all the cookies she had made.

“See. Eat— _eat_.” Jon grinned and bit into one of the cookies with a blissful sigh.

“These are very good, Zach,” Miri said shyly. “And—your mum makes them?”

“Yeah,” Zach said after he swallowed a mouthful of triple chocolate brownie.

“Yep, Wendy’s almost as talented a baker as she is a designer.” Jon licked caramel off his finger. “Can you believe she makes this from scratch? I want to know how me and Zach don’t roll down hills after years of eating his mum’s cooking.”

Vivianne bubbled a faint laugh and tossed her black hair back when curious eyes shot to her. “Oh—my Great-Aunt Laurelle and my—my grandmother—used to joke. My Great-Aunt Enid snacks—at everything. You want to know which hors d’oeuvres are good? Ask Aunt Enid.” Vivianne looked at her cookie and gave a smile that was maybe only a little forced. “Anyway—they used to make the same sort of joke: that they’d have to hire a harem of handsome wranglers to roll them from room to room if they ate the way Great-Aunt Enid did.” The smile morphed into a brief but genuine one.

Rowan looked curious – it was ostensibly directed at her gingerbread man – but Wendy had been stuffing Rowan full of cookies every chance she got for years.

“What?” Vivianne asked.

“I w-w-was—just t-t-trying to f-f-figure out w-w-which G-g-great-Aunt was L-Laurelle.”

“Oh,” Vivianne said.

“R-Ragnell mentioned h-her—b-b-but …” Rowan rubbed her nose under her glasses, leaving a streak of icing behind like war paint.

“I suppose …we all do look somewhat alike, don’t we?” Vivianne smirked. “She was the silver-haired, matronly-looking woman to the left of Dindrane at the actual ceremony.”

“Ah!” Rowan said with a smile that Vivianne surprisingly – or perhaps not – returned with a hint of hesitance. Then enjoyment of cookies seemed to infuse the room.

“So, I guess I should …” Zach nodded at the gifts.

“Yes, yes, you should,” Juliette said with a grin. “My money’s on half of these containing Chocolate Frogs.” They all laughed, and Zach started unwrapping the gifts.

There were quite a few Chocolate Frogs; they were Zach’s favorites, after all. But he was almost startled by the thought that his friends had put into his gifts. From Shae and Krem, a book of staff paper, new guitar picks, and a musical transcription quill. Krem obviously remembered Zach saying he wanted to write more original music.

From Juliette, a new Pride of Portree jersey – along with the requisite Chocolate Frogs, of course. Rowan got him books, of course: one on the history of the Pride of Portree, a couple others on wizarding music, and one that had to be Muggle by a Terry Pratchett. Spencer also went with books, wizarding mysteries, including a new one by Cormoran Strike that he hadn’t even known was out.

His family ranged more toward practical gifts: new robes, jumpers, socks from Aunt Beth, but it was a family joke that she would _always_ buy him new socks. Michael’s ex-wife, Erica, his half-sisters’ mother, had sent him some pocket money, telling him it was better for him to buy something he would like than any of the rainbow, unicorn, or kitten-adorned things that his sisters had offered. Though, he did get a box of Bertie Bott’s Beans and two Chocolate Frogs with a short, shakily penned note from each of the twins attached to each of the frogs.

“So, who is helping me carry all this back to the dorm?” Zach joked when it seemed like he was done.

“Wait a second – there’s one more,” Jon said with a smile. “From my mum.” The parcel in question was fairly large and simply covered in brown paper. He floated it over to Zach.

“Rachel didn’t have to give me anything,” Zach told him.

“You only come of age once. And look me in the eye and tell me your mum isn’t squirreling away some coin for something I want for my coming of age.”

Zach couldn’t, so he moved to opening the package that had settled onto his lap. He opened the paper, his jaw dropping, eyes flicking up to meet Jon’s incredulously. Jon just grinned.

“What is it?” Juliette asked, shifting on her pillow, curiosity and impatience warring in her tone.

“I think …” He flicked the last of the paper off and pulled out the case inside. It was too heavy to just be a new case—he cracked open the latches and felt his eyes actually tear up. “Your mum got me a new guitar?” Zach asked incredulously. He couldn’t even imagine – Rachel had to have saved for _years_ to be able to get this for him.

“My mum’s friend, Caro – her husband makes ‘em?” Jon said with a grin. “So, probably not as long as you’re thinking.”

“Huh?” Candice asked.

“Nothing,” Jon dismissed. “Zach knows what I meant.”

Zach pulled the guitar from the case and gave it a few experimental strums. He honestly had no idea how he didn’t burst into tears. He loved his old guitar – it had actually been a gift from Jon, once upon a time. An _I’m sorry I’ve been an arse_ gift; he’d worked all summer for it.

“So you know what this means, don’t you?” Titan grinned.

“Concert! Concert! Concert!” That was Jon and his friends, even Rowan after a moment of flickering back and forth between looking at Jon and looking at Zach.

“You can’t get a new guitar and not break it in,” Shae told him. “We never get to see you play. You do all your practice in your common room or dorm.” Claudia nodded enthusiastically.

“But …” Zach protested, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“C’mon, I’ll even play back up.” Titan said, holding up his drumsticks. Zach looked from face to face – but really, he couldn’t think of a good reason not to play at least a couple songs. So his fingers fell to chords, and he sang whatever his fingers picked. He got lost in the golden sound of the new guitar, but when he remembered he actually had an audience and looked up –that audience seemed to be lost in it as well.

He cleared his throat.

“We should get you to give impromptu concerts more often.” Krem grinned from the half-shadows that the room had fallen into as the fire – not magical, because they needed the heat – hadn’t been tended for a while apparently.

“Yep,” Jon climbed to his feet, stretching and extending a hand to Austin. “We, however, should probably get back to our various hidey-holes before all the prefects start harping. Besides, if we escape now, we won’t get roped into helping the birthday boy carry loot,” he added in a stage-whisper to the room.

“Or he could just charm it all to follow him down the hall and then nobody has to carry it,” Sybilla countered – though she also climbed to her feet and helped Spencer to his.

Zach collected his gifts and the – mostly empty – cookie boxes, Vivianne helping him straighten up the lounge a little. The house-elves might clean everything up better, but Zach hated leaving a mess, especially when there was still enough time before curfew actually hit that the house-elves might not be the next ones in the room.

As Sybilla suggested, a few charms had the stacks of boxes, books, and whatnot following them as they left the room, holding hands.

“That song, the one about cars?” Vivianne asked. “I liked it.” She shot him a smile when he looked at her.

“I do too. I heard it on the wireless—um—at …” He trailed off with a shrug.

“That’s okay,” Vivianne said turning toward him. “Broken clocks and all that.” She brushed at his hair for a moment before drawing him into a kiss. “Happy birthday, Zachary.”

“Thanks.” He put his arms around her, inhaling the rich rose smell of her hair, enjoying a quiet moment, just the two of them. Then one of the boxes bumped him in the back, and they started toward the door to Hufflepuff basement.

“So, now that you have that new guitar—are you going to play for me?” Vivianne batted her lashes at him.

“As you wish.”


	33. Chapter 32: Can't Get It Out of My Head?

**Chapter 32: Can’t Get It Out of My Head?**

“Nobody wants a birthday on a Monday.” Rowan wasn’t sure she agreed with that. Of course, she’d never had to celebrate her birthday at school – her birthday was the last day of the summer holidays – but she thought having a birthday on a Monday might be a good thing. It would liven up the day, make things a bit happier.

Besides, just because Zach had had his party the day before was no reason not to wish him a good day on his actual birthday.

Rowan wasn’t able to do that until they were all lining up in the courtyard to go to the ruins. She tossed her blue-and-bronze scarf over her shoulder as she hurried through the frosty courtyard. It was _cold_ – patches of ice lurked under every shadow, and the trees this morning had looked as if they were sheathed in glass – but the snow they had had the week before had all melted, more or less. That was probably why they were heading out.

Zach was standing with Vivianne – of course – and Spencer and Sybilla weren’t far off. Rowan took a deep breath. Neither Vivianne nor Sybilla had tried anything yesterday … but that was yesterday …

Well, they wouldn’t try anything in front of Zach, surely? Rowan had glanced once or twice at her cousin’s face yesterday, especially when Zach was singing “Chasing Cars.” Vivianne had looked …

Vivianne almost certainly wouldn’t try anything in front of Zach. And Sybilla had always struck Rowan as the sort of person who had much better things to do with her time than start pointless feuds in full view of the teachers.

Zach had his back to her. Rowan quickened her pace. Her goal was to simply tap him on the shoulder, wish him a happy birthday, and meet Ben at their usual bench.

She didn’t see the patch of ice until her foot made contact with it.

She yelped—but at least she didn’t fall. Not entirely.

She _did_ bang into Zach’s back, but that was enough to stop her before she hit the ground.

“B-b-bloody hell! S-s-sorry, Zach!”

Zach turned around and caught her arm. “Are you all right, Rowan?”

“Y-y-yeah,” Rowan rubbed her nose under her glasses. “You? I d-d-did bang r-r-right into you.”

“I’m fine.” And Zach was smiling – but he still looked concerned. Of course he would.

So Rowan smiled back and said what she’d been meaning to say all along. “Happy b-b-birthday. And h-h-hi—everybody.”

She smiled at she said it. Spencer grinned at her, but of course he would. Sybilla nodded, almost regally. And Vivianne … _smiled_?

It was a tiny smile. And it was “now you see it, now you don’t.” But unless Rowan was hallucinating, it was most emphatically a smile.

Before Rowan could see anything else that made her doubt her sanity, she glanced up at Zach. “S-s-so. How’s it—”

“Mademoiselle O’Blake! And Mademoiselle Gorlois.”

Rowan wasn’t sure whether the sound that came out of her next was a gasp or a hiccup.

But the reaction around her was immediate.

Zach went stiff and his grip on Rowan’s arm tightened just a fraction. Zach had no poker face. Vivianne did, so Rowan wondered if anyone else saw the faint furrow of the brow and the narrowing of her eyes. And Sybilla’s face was entirely blank – terrifyingly blank.

Only Spencer looked puzzled, his gaze darting around their small circle.

Vivianne was the first to speak. “Monsieur Bellerose.” Somehow, she floated forward and put herself between Rowan and Zach and Mr. Bellerose. “What a pleasure. How are you?”

If Rowan didn’t know better— _did_ she know better? Maybe—

“Mademoiselle Gorlois,” Mr. Bellerose replied, inclining his head toward her. “And of course, Mademoiselle O’Blake. And—everyone.”

Rowan wondered how his smile looked to everyone else. Was she the only one who saw the predatory curve, the teeth that looked long and sharp in the dull late-fall light? Was she imagining all of that?

“I am so grateful to catch the both of you, especially together,” Mr. Bellerose went on, as if this was a perfectly normal conversation and not … _not_ a perfectly normal conversation. “I wished to give you both my condolences on the passing of your _grand-mère_ – your grandmother.”

Zach let go of Rowan’s arm and put his hand, very lightly, on Vivianne’s shoulder.

Vivianne took a deep breath and tilted her chin up so that it almost looked as if she was staring down at Mr. Bellerose. Rowan wondered how stupid she would look if she imitated that little trick. “Well, thank you, Mr. Bellerose. I—we do appreciate it.”

“Such a tragedy.” Mr. Bellerose shook his head. “And in her own gardens, too. But—I am sure you do not need me to elaborate on that.”

“Probably not,” Sybilla replied for all of them. When Rowan glanced at her, she was smirking. “I mean, it could be construed to be a sensitive subject. You know – considering it’s their grandmother and all.”

Mr. Bellerose’s mouth worked rather stupidly as he stared at Sybilla.

That was all it had time to do, because a very familiar accent cut through the rest. “Well, how do you figure this? A party, an’ no one invited me?”

“B-Ben!” Rowan gasped – and she was pretty sure everyone in a ten-foot radius heard the relief.

_Let them._ Because Ben was standing there, hands in his pockets, the tail end of his scarf flapping in the wind, scarlet-and-black knit hat pulled low over his ears. And smiling. The smile, when he turned it on Mr. Bellerose was sardonic, challenging – daring him to start something.

The smile he turned on Rowan was anything but.

Rowan tapped Zach’s shoulder – whispered “Happy birthday,” again, not even stuttering – and hurried over to Ben. She didn’t slip on any ice, didn’t trip on a loose flagstone. She just slipped her arm through his, not asking if it was all right, and stood as close as she could.

She could not have been imagining the way Mr. Bellerose’s nostrils flared and the way his eyes narrowed when he saw that.

But in a moment it was gone, and all that was left was a serene, urbane smile. “Again, mademoiselles – my condolences. Now if you will excuse me …” He didn’t bother to finish the sentence, walking away to rejoin the other teachers and Ministry assistants.

“You all right?” Ben asked in a low voice as soon as he was out of earshot.

Rowan nodded. But even though she knew they’d be facing Professor Lipskit in a moment and that his patience for public displays of affection was about as strong as his patience for, well, everything else …

She didn’t let go of Ben’s arm.

* * *

Maybe it wasn’t surprising that Lipskit did nothing more than roll his eyes when he saw Ben and Rowan with their arms laced together – it was magnificent restraint, but Lipskit had that in spades. He would have seen Monsieur le Pew oozing over here. And as long as Ben didn’t start anything with Bellerose, Lipskit was pretending he didn’t notice.

“So what oozed out of the skunk?” Ben murmured to Rowan, who covered her mouth to hide a giggle, even if it steamed the air around her. “Other than cheese and stale game, a’course.”

“He j-j-just wanted to extend his c-c-condolences,” Rowan muttered.

“Jeez.” Ben looked over his shoulder. “If this whole Ministry hack slash researcher thang falls through, I say we all chip together and buy him half a dozen polyester sport coats and send him off to the nearest used car dealership.”

“W-w-would anyone actually b-b-buy a car f-from him?” Rowan wondered, her mittened hand pressing into the crook of his elbow.

“Some people like that sort of game.” Ben shrugged. “It does wonders for drunk girls singing about balls in a club, I’m told. I’d suggest gigolo, but he might take me up on that. And that would be the worst thing unleashed on that word since Rob Schneider.”

“… W-who?” Rowan asked, before almost stumbling on some ice under the trees.

“Rob Schneider, sorta the poor man’s Pauly Shore,” Ben said. “Or a knock off Adam Sandler, and given some of the crap he’s put out—that’s bad. But then, so are Rob Schneider movies.” He shrugged. The ruins were just ahead. He had to admit there was some—it just felt … weird there. Weirder than Ben remembered it being.

Rowan shivered as they walked through the gate – though he didn’t think that it had anything to do with how ass-fucking cold it was.

Bellerose shrieked like a little girl as they passed the knot of teachers and Ministry officials. Seriously, outside of disco, post-pubescent men just didn’t hit that note – like ever.

“What?” Langley yelped in reply. Most of that had gone into _his_ ear; maybe there was such a thing as karma.

“That—that— _that_!” He pointed.

“It’s a _Knarl_.” Lipskit pulled something out of his pocket and held it out toward Bellerose, who shuddered and reared back, even going up on his tiptoes.

“Why are you carrying a Knarl in your pocket?” Langley asked.

“Because he gets into trouble if I don’t.” Lipskit brought the Knarl up and looked at him.

“And why is he wearing a scarf?” That was Ms. Caymen, who sounded honestly curious.

“Hagrid thought he needed one. It’s cold out here and he’s riding around in my pocket all day,” Lipskit told her before returning the Knarl to his pocket.

Bellerose shuddered. “Ugh—you really carry that thing with you?”

“He has a name – also at Hagrid’s insistence. But yes. I do.” Lipskit shrugged. “He was injured—and I’m looking after him until he’s healed.”

“Ewww,” Bellerose complained.

“I like him—he’s far less irritating than most of the people I know.” Lipskit’s brow arched, and Ben didn’t doubt that everyone in the courtyard knew just what he was implying by the statement.

“We should get to our groups. We’re distracting the students,” Langley declared. Lipskit and Zanetti seemed to share an eye roll.

“Oh, Julien, I don’t suppose I could get your help?” Zanetti adjusted her shockingly pink fuzzy earmuffs over her ears.

“But—”

“I cleared it with Lipskit and Brigid already,” Zanetti insisted. “With luck, you’ll be back before lunch, figuratively speaking of course. And it keeps you away from Dragon; that sounds like it’d be good.” Zanetti gestured toward the kitchen as Ben and Rowan stepped up their pace to get to the antechamber where they were sorting out some odd rocks they’d found in the gardens. “Odd” because they seemed to have once been charmed – at least, they were embossed with runes. Had the witch who lived here kept something like a greenhouse of her plants by the use of charmed rocks? That was – actually kinda clever.

“D-Darwin would n-never forgive me,” Rowan murmured as they passed a bickering Lucinda and Beau, “b-but I s-s-suddenly have the urge to have my m-m-mum g-get me a hedgehog.”

“I’d lend you Chance,” Ben told her. “I know she’s cute and ordinary-seeming for a cat, but she’s got Shere Khan for a spirit animal.”

“W-w-wasn’t he a b-b-bad g-guy, though?” Rowan asked, cocking her head to the side.

“Nala, then, from the Lion King.” Ben winked. “She’d totally send Bellerose ass over elbows.” Ben shrugged.

“I d-d-dunno, Ben. Chance is—v-very c-c-cute. She might m-m-make things worse.” Rowan glanced at him shyly out of the corner of her eyes.

“Ah—puppy in the park theory.” Ben nodded in understanding. “You’re right, she might. Same goes for Jack.”

“Mum—Mum s-s-says that the r-r-reason she has the S-S-Stunner is b-b-because Jack wouldn’t b-b-be any help.” Rowan smiled, though her eyes were faintly drawn.

“And here I thought it was the allure of greeting your guests with a house-elf wielding a machine gun.” Ben shrugged. “I mean, imagine the conversations that must come outta that!” Rowan giggled as she laid out rocks and grabbed a piece of graphite.

* * *

“I’ve actually h-heard a c-c-couple,” Rowan chuckled. “They’re about w-w-what you’d imagine.”

Ben grinned at her, and Rowan started to feel better. Perhaps not perfect, but definitely better.

She took a deep breath and turned back to the rune she was trying to make a rubbing of. She wished she had taken Ancient Runes. Even back in second year, she’d had an idea of what she had wanted to do and had chosen her electives – Care of Magical Creatures and Arithmancy – accordingly. Care of Magical Creatures had been easy; there were so many magical creatures that could cause injury or whose various parts were used for healing. As for Arithmancy, she would not be her father’s daughter if she didn’t realize that you couldn’t get far in any quasi-scientific endeavor without understanding maths.

She doubted her father would know what to make of Arithmancy, though.

Rowan pushed her glasses up her nose with the hand that had been holding the graphite. “D-d-do—do you know w-what these r-runes mean?” she asked Ben.

“Mostly temperature controllin’ ones. An’ shields. Like that one,” he gestured to the rune on the rock Rowan was holding, which looked like a capital Y with an extra line in the middle, “ _algiz_ – it’s about defense, protection.”

“ _Algiz_ ,” Rowan repeated – and the rune in her hand glowed. She almost yelped and dropped it.

But the glow was gone before she could do that.

So Rowan slowly, carefully returned the rock to the pile. “D-d-d-did y-y-you …”

“Yep,” Ben replied, staring at the rock before putting a hand on Rowan’s shoulder. “You ok?”

Rowan nodded. “I th-think,” she murmured, “you p-p-probably shouldn’t t-t-tell me any m-m-more r-rune names. At l-least—n-n-not while w-we’re out h-here.”

“No, ma’am,” Ben agreed.

They might have left it at that, but Ms. Caymen had come closer. “Is everything all right? I saw a flash of light.”

And Rowan was flushing. “I—um—I j-j-just said one of the r-r-rune n-names—and the r-r-rune—well—g-g-glowed.”

“It activated?” Ms. Caymen asked, eyes going wide. “That—you just said the rune name?”

Rowan nodded and so did Ben.

“That is—that is so fascinating! We’ve been trying to get them to activate for days!” Ms. Caymen was grinning. “Don’t you try any more now—but thank you for figuring that out. It’ll make things so much easier when we try to determine what kind of spells went into these.”

Rowan and Ben nodded, and with a smile, Ms. Caymen hurried away to check on Beau and Lucinda.

“W-well,” Rowan murmured, “that w-w-was—interesting.” She flashed another grin at Ben and went back to her rubbings.

She managed to get through a few more rocks – a couple more _algiz_ es as well as quite a few that Rowan could not recognize and would not ask about until after class – not thinking about anything in particular, simply concentrating on what she was doing. She didn’t notice how many times she pushed her glasses up her nose, either, until Ben chuckled.

“W-what?”

He rubbed her nose without a word, then showed her the graphite-stained thumb.

“Oh! M-M-Merlin.” Rowan dove into her bag and pulled out a couple of tissues. “B-b-better?”

“Jest a little,” he replied, eyes twinkling.

“Here—” Rowan grabbed his hand and cleaned off his thumb as well. “There. M-m-much b-b-better.”

Ben didn’t answer her, simply smiling into her eyes. Rowan smiled back.

“Oh, for Merlin’s _sake_ ,” Beau muttered – more than loud enough to be heard. Rowan started to blush.

And she stopped when Lucinda snapped back, “Don’t you even start. It’s cute!”

“They’re in public.”

“Oh, like that stopped _you_ when …”

Rowan rolled her eyes and caught Ben’s eye to see him doing the same thing.

She grinned. Then she turned back to her rocks and her runes.

But this time her mind wandered, even as she forced herself to wipe her hand off before she rubbed her nose or pushed her hair back. And maybe it was only natural that her mind wandered back to the courtyard, to the school …

To Mr. Bellerose.

Rowan sighed under her breath. Professor Lipskit and Professor Zanetti had said they’d keep him away from her. And the first day back in class …

Zach had been on edge. Ben had been – well – Ben. Even Vivianne and _Sybilla_ of all people had weapons drawn. The only one who had been calm had been Spencer, and Spencer hadn’t been so much calm as confused.

And all he’d done was give Rowan and Vivianne his condolences! If this was how they all reacted – how _she_ reacted – when that was all he did … if he tried something …

_“Such a tragedy … and in her own gardens too …”_

Rowan gasped and the graphite fell from her hand.

“Rowan?” Ben asked. She wasn’t imagining the faint—very faint—alarm in his eyes.

“B-B-Ben?” Rowan asked.

“Right here, honey.”

“If—if you h-h-heard of a s-s-seventy-f-five-year-old w-w-woman d-dying of a heart attack—however s-s-sudden—w-w-would you c-call that _t-t-tragic_?”

Ben’s eyebrows went up. Maybe he hadn’t been close enough to hear what Mr. Bellerose had said. “No …”

Rowan leaned back on her haunches, staring at the rocks in front of her, the _algiz_ es that seemed to surround her on all sides. “N-n-neither w-w-would I,” she whispered, and shivered.

_So—why did Mr. Bellerose?_

* * *

“And who does he think he _is_?” Vivianne was still fuming as the four of them worked on cleaning the tarnish off an embossed bronze tray. “I mean, honestly, right there in front of the entire school!”

“Vivianne, it’s about three degrees below hell froze over out there,” Spencer pointed out. “It was really just the whole class.”

Vivianne scowled at Spencer, who brushed at the fluted edge without much reaction.

“Whatever.” Vivianne pulled a strand of hair over her shoulder and toyed with the ends. “And you know what the worst part is? I almost want to thank Ben.”

“That’s the worst part?” Zach wondered out loud as Vivianne buffed the part that Spencer had finished with. “Gratefulness?”

“Gratefulness to _Ben,_ Zach. How often do you really think one of us would be thankful that a Gryffindork is built like a mountain?” Sybilla smirked. “That doesn’t involve litigation.”

“I guess, now that you mention it …” Zach trailed off dramatically.

“Still—any lackey of Uncle Victor’s shouldn’t even be able to talk about my grandmother.” Vivianne sighed. “My grandmother’s memory shouldn’t be—sullied by the likes of that poncy—paedophile—prick!”

“This must have you upset, Vivi-darling; you swear much better than this on a good day.” Sybilla patted her on the head.

“I just—there’s something wrong with this, isn’t there? I mean, it’s not just me, right?”

Zach might have agreed with her solely based off the lost look on her face, but he did agree there was something off about the whole thing,

“Would you like the bullet point or just the summation?” Sybilla asked as Zach attempted to compile in his head what he thought was off about it.

“There’s a bullet point?” Vivianne arched a brow upward.

“There _could_ be,” Sybilla said.

“Um, guys?” Spencer pushed his hair back. “Not that I can’t guess what this is about—but would the bullet point do anything to further cement this as the worst kept secret in the school at the moment?”

Vivianne stared at Spencer for a long moment before looking at Sybilla.

“How do you know it’s the worst kept secret in the school?” Vivianne asked urgently, leaning in and staring intently at Spencer.

“Because you know, she knows, he knows, Rowan knows, Ben knows, and at a guess Lipskit knows, because he knows _everything_.” Spencer enumerated with finger ticks. “And if you say much more I’ll know and not just be guessing.”

“Merlin, I’m getting schooled on secret-keeping from a Hufflepuff,” Vivianne muttered into her hands as she bracketed her elbows on the edge of the table. “And what’s worse, I _needed_ to be schooled by him. One little slip—I got so angry with him that I slipped.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I formulated a theory while we were still in the courtyard.” Spencer pushed his glasses up his nose and sighed as they immediately slipped back down as he bent his head over the tray once more.

“Minorly.” Vivianne sighed. “You—you won’t …” She trailed off.

“You don’t need that, and neither does Rowan. Consider me ignorant.” Spencer smiled reassuringly.

Vivianne nodded. “Still, it was sloppy of me, and I apologize.” She adjusted her headband

“Can I ask a question—or possibly more, depending on your answer?” Sybilla asked.

“I—guess?” Vivianne answered, glancing over her shoulder at Professor Kilduff – who looked, for all the world, like she had her hands stuffed into her sky blue furry muffler so she wouldn’t use them to strangle Mr. Langley.

“Did your grandmother die in the gardens?”

Vivianne gasped.

“What? Where—where did you …?”

Zach rubbed Vivianne’s shoulder.

“He said it, in the courtyard.”

“He—did? He did.” Vivianne repeated slowly. “For what it’s worth, I believe Rowan’s little friend Candice refers to him as Monsieur le Pew. It’s as good a name as any.”

“… Why?” Sybilla quirked a brow at Vivianne.

“Because—something about a cartoon skunk, I stopped listening.” Vivianne shrugged ruefully. “She’s just so … Muggle. As for why it’s as good as any—well, it does differentiate him from the other few hundred ‘hes’ in the school without putting a specific name to him.”

“Ah.”

“Why is that important?” Zach asked as Vivianne grasped his hand.

“What, that he said in the gardens? He shouldn’t know where Igraine passed,” Sybilla told him. “ _I_ didn’t know. And I’ve both read all the press—which it is _not_ mentioned in—and Vivianne talks to me about most things. Who would know?”

“Just close family. Mother, Aunt Elaine, Aunt Nell, Great-Aunt Enid, Great-Aunt Dindrane, Great-Aunt Laurelle.” Vivianne released his hand and picked up her cloth again.

“So does Victor know?”

“Mother knows,” Vivianne reminded her.

“Victor knows.”

“You know, no offense, truly, Vivianne … but the more I learn about your family—the more grateful I am that I don’t know more about your family,” said Spencer.

“And I assume the more grateful you are that they aren’t your family? Don’t worry, I won’t take offense. There are days—weeks—months—when I wish they weren’t mine.” Vivianne shrugged, something unreadable in her mismatched eyes. “Victor had to tell him, but—why? What’s Victor’s game in all this?”

* * *

When they walked back to the school, Vivianne was no closer to determining that.

She supposed she could guess why Professor Zanetti insisted on keeping Mr. Bellerose close to her – it was certainly better than letting him get near Rowan; Vivianne didn’t need Zach being dragged along on any more ideas that were nearly certain to get him expelled now that they were actually dating – but she wished she could have passed that duty to someone else. Say, Professor Kilduff. If _Vivianne_ could keep an eye on Monsieur Bellerose …

_Why did Uncle Victor tell Monsieur Bellerose where Grandmother was found? Is it just to get a rise out of the two of us?_

_And if he didn’t—but Monsieur Bellerose knows Uncle Victor. He starts working here at the first opportunity after he got to know Uncle Victor. And he starts sneaking around Rowan like—like a paedophile. That’s just too much coincidence to swallow._

_But why?_

That was the question that echoed with every step. And no matter how many times and in how many different ways she asked it, she never got closer to an answer.

Vivianne sighed, and Zach turned to her with a raised eyebrow. Vivianne smiled at him and shrugged. Zach smiled back, rested a hand on her shoulder – and removed it quickly. Lipskit was bringing up the rear of the group, and there was no point in antagonizing him.

Of course he was closest to Ben and Rowan – dogging their steps, as it so happened, and practically forcing them to behave, at least for a given value of behave. The last time Vivianne had looked back at them, Ben had murmured something to Rowan that made her slap her mittened hands over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. And she turned to him with a sardonic smile and … something that made Ben grin and chuckle.

They left the shadow of the trees, and the glowing candles of the school loomed large at the horizon. Vivianne wasn’t the only one who quickened her pace. Warmth – dinner – a warm dinner – there was any number of possible motivators.

It didn’t take long for the twelve students and three teachers to cross the wide grassy expanse between school and forest. Even Lipskit seemed to be going at a faster pace. Maybe his Knarl was hungry.

When they finally entered the courtyard, Vivianne turned to Zach and took a deep breath. She meant to ask what his plans were for after dinner, to point out that it was still his birthday and that they could probably sneak in some celebration before curfew.

“VIVIANNE!”

Vivianne jumped. “Belle?”

It was Belle – running from the big double doors to the school, skidding over ice, not even wearing a cloak.

She had the newspaper in her hand.

“Vivianne!” Belle slid to a stop in front of her. “Vivianne, you have to sit down.”

“What?” Vivianne asked, stupidly. “What’s going on?”

Belle put the paper behind her back. “You have to sit down. You—you can’t go in there until you know this!” She shook the paper, but Vivianne couldn’t catch a glimpse of whatever it was that was upsetting her.

And maybe she was a little distracted, because she heard Sybilla hiss.

Vivianne turned to Sybilla – then turned to where Sybilla was looking.

Across the courtyard, Ben and Rowan had tried to walk around them and get into the school, but they hadn’t gotten far. They’d been stopped by Jon McIntosh and Blair Ross, who were huddled close to Rowan and Ben and saying something very quickly—

Something that made Rowan slap both of her hands in front of her mouth and made even _Ben_ look surprised—

“And w-would you hurry up?” Belle asked. She wrapped her arms around herself and jumped. “It’s cold out here!”

“I’m sitting, I’m sitting—where’s a bloody—” Vivianne saw a bench and hurried toward it, Belle, Sybilla, Zach, and Spencer trailing behind her.

And someone else. “Here—here, Belle. If—if you’re cold—”

Vivianne glanced over her shoulder to see Trevor holding his cloak out to Belle.

Belle stared at it in shock. “Oh—that’s so kind— _thank_ you …” She took the cloak and smiled at him. “… Travis?”

Trevor had been beaming. The smile dropped away. “Um—Trevor—actually.”

“Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry. Trevor! Of course.” Belle put a hand on his shoulder, and suddenly the smile was back on Trevor’s face. Bigger, if that were possible.

But that was all Vivianne saw, because she found the bench and sat down it – swearing, because it was _cold_ – and held out her hands for the paper.

The smile dropped away from Belle’s face as she stepped closer to Vivianne. “I—Vivianne, I just want to say, I’m really sorry.”

Vivianne grabbed the paper, then swore again. It was too dark; she couldn’t read it. Sybilla lit her wand without a word.

They all huddled closer – Zach, Sybilla, Belle, Spencer, and even a shivering Trevor.

The first thing that Vivianne saw was the picture. Harry Potter, looking … if he wasn’t the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, Vivianne would have called the expression “thoroughly exasperated” or perhaps “ready to pull his hair out.” He was trying to close a large oaken door—

Vivianne gasped.

She _knew_ that door.

Her eyes went to the screamer headline.

_GORLOIS MATRIARCH MURDERED!_

“What?” Vivianne whispered.

And the paper fluttered from her hands.


	34. Chapter 33: It's Begining to Look a Lot Like Christmas

**Chapter 33: It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas**

Even with a bomb like the Gorlois matriarch’s death being a murder dropped on the wizarding world – and to a lesser degree, the school – life marched on. As the clock ticked them closer to December every second, the holidays were gently invading routine.

Things like evergreen bunting covering anything that would stand still. Teachers confiscating mistletoe. And the letters, all the letters: the “Are you coming home for Christmas?” letters, the “You _are_ coming home for Christmas” letters, the “Why aren’t you coming home for Christmas?” letters. Every morning dozens of these were dropped on the long tables in the Great Hall, to the happiness of some and the disgruntlement of others.

Ben and his friends were certainly not immune to this. Though Ms. Vasile hadn’t sent anything to Kenny, Cameron had gotten one from Leon and Kasumi, with a postscript inviting Ben once more. Ben had sent Kasumi a short note, thanking her for the invitation, but demurring on actually taking her up on it. Staying at Hogwarts for the holidays wasn’t so bad. If he went back south, he was certain that he would have to deal with the old bat, and the holidays were always a little hard for Ben. Having to put up with C. Madeline was not something he wanted to do.

His parents had died in December, victims of an icy road from what Ben could gather. When he’d first arrived at Hogwarts – and his friends were still developing a resistance to the urge to use foot-in-mouth callousness – it had been suggested that maybe this was like James and Lily Potter. How the Dursleys had lied to Harry and told him that his parents died in a car crash was still legend around Gryffindor tower.

Which, as much as it might have been cool to have that kind of connection to the Boy Who Lived, was not the case for Ben. Ben had seen the articles from both the Muggle and wizarding papers about his parents’ deaths. And his aunt and uncle were not the Dursleys, haters of all things not Muggle. Even Uncle Chester would have told him if his parents had died at the hands of an egomaniacal jackass with delusions of world supremacy, had he known that was how Ben’s parents died.

Nope, even wizards in this day and age could die in crashes if the crash was bad enough, and having seen the tangled mess that was the wreckage and the depth of the ravine that it had been pulled out of (and the fact that Aiden’s car was a vintage Camaro, not one in possession of all of the nifty safety features and standard save-your-butt technology), Ben could easily see how the crash had been fatal.

But, well, holidays were … every time Ben saw people getting all geeked out about spending time with their families, it was hard to know that his family wasn’t … like theirs. And then there was the distance. His family wasn’t even on this continent, or the nearest continent to the island they were on. It was a cocktail that could be poisonous, if he let it.

Which Ben had no intention of doing.

So he pasted on his very best smile and went about his day, being happy for his friends and trying to be supportive of Rowan; she had this odd look on her face when the archaeology class came up. And sometimes he’d find her holed up in odd places with a book in her lap that obviously wasn’t a school book, but she really didn’t want him to know what it was. She had hidden it under homework, her cloak, other books, and even on one memorable afternoon, under her owl. Darwin, an incredibly “unique” owl, had been more than a little disgruntled.

Ben could have told Rowan that he would not pry into whatever the book was; if she asked for privacy, he’d respect it – but she seemed to be having fun hiding it from him. So …

“So, you will never guess what _I_ heard today,” Selena said, coming up to tug on Cameron’s hair.

“What?”

“Professor Pythagoras telling Lipskit he thought that Lipskit should go easy on you guys when you do your holiday prank.” Selena draped Cameron’s arm over her shoulder. “And,” she paused melodramatically and cupped her hand to shield her mouth, “Madam Pince even agreed with him!”

“With … going easy on us?” Booker asked, completely incredulous.

“We should report this to somebody; obviously, Madam Pince got hit with an Imperius!” Kenny laughed.

“Or maybe to Professor Zanetti, maybe somebody worked that sex magic thing on her,” Cameron said, trying to keep a straight face.

“Well, I did hear that Blake was still single,” Ringo put in.

“What are you guys talking about?” Carrie and Donna asked as they joined the group slowly moving down the corridor toward the Great Hall.

“Somebody working sex magic on Pince—my money’s with Ringo on Blake,” Kenny told them as Booker shuddered.

“C’mon, guys. That is a crime against house-elf food,” Ben waded into the conversation.

“Come again?” Donna asked curiously.

“Imagining Blake screwing anyone,” Ben said. “Especially someone as poor and innocent as dear Madam Pince. That sort of thing just kills the appetite. And we’re on our way down to dinner. So, like I said – crime against the food.”

“And only Ben would think of it that way.” Ringo rolled his eyes.

“That’s why you guys wuv me.” Ben pushed the Great Hall door open – they couldn’t help but burst into snickers, however, at the fact that Blake was _right inside_ the door. But while the Slytherin chaser scowled in their direction, he thankfully didn’t do anything but scowl and turn his back on them. Ringo responded to that by morphing his face into a caricature of Blake’s face, and in the grand tradition of cartoon characters everywhere, he proceeded to make funny faces at Blake’s back.

“So if two of the most hard-assed teachers in the school are agreeing there should be a prank, you know there’s got to be a prank,” Kenny said, causing all five of them to glance at the chartreuse robes currently pestering poor Professor Flitwick – or at least the portly man wearing them was pestering him. However, given that Flitwick was not blind, the robes were probably pretty bothersome as well.

“Now we just have to hope that someone can vote _him_ down.” And with that, Kenny pretty much spoke for them all.

* * *

“So,” asked Candice, plopping down at the Ravenclaw table and addressing Rowan, “do you know what their prank is going to be? Or when it’s going to be? Because Professor Yaxley is preparing a bitch of a—”

“Candice!” Blair scolded.

“What? She _is_! And it’s not like I called her a—”

Aubrey put his hand over Candice’s mouth. “We get the picture, Candy Cane.”

Candice made a muffled sound that could have been a squawk or a squeal or any number of noises of protest. But when she pulled Aubrey’s hand off her mouth, what she said was, “ _Candy Cane_? Again? _Why_?”

“‘Cause it’s almost Christmas,” Aubrey replied with a shrug.

“Aubrey, be nice,” Blair scolded.

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s not like I’m particularly sweet … or even minty,” Candice replied.

For some reason, this made Aubrey choke on his mashed potatoes, and Blair had to whack him on the back until he could breathe again.

“… Do we want to know?” Jon asked once Aubrey could breathe again.

“No,” Aubrey forced out, taking out one of his contacts and blinking as tears streamed down his face. “No, you really don’t. Not here, anyway.”

A quick glance at Blair showed that she was just as mystified as the rest of them. Rowan shook her head and decided that she’d take Aubrey at his word.

“So … where was I?” Candice asked.

“Trying to get Rowan to tell us if our favorite Gryffindors,” Quill gestured to where Ben and his friends were sitting, “were planning a Christmas prank. Which is a terrible idea, really, Candice.”

“A Christmas prank? Oh, come on. We need a prank to liven things up around here. Then maybe people will stop whispering about Rowan’s grandmum getting murdered and—”

“Candice!” Blair hissed.

“What? She _was_!” Candice gestured to Rowan. “And it’s not like Rowan’s all broken up over it. I mean, sure, it’s awful, but I’d say what’s more awful is all the people whispering about it. At least for Rowan.”

“It’s n-n-not s-s-so b-bad,” Rowan shrugged, because it was easier to leave it at that than to admit what she was really thinking. _It’s not so bad for me._

Because she couldn’t imagine what things were like for Vivianne or any of the other Gorlois girls. She knew there was one in fourth year, and one was just a first year. How awful, having all those whispers following you all around when you were so young and didn’t have a clue how to handle it.

Rowan, at least, could handle it. More or less.

She shook her head and rolled her shoulders. “Anyway—C-Candice – I d-don’t know anything about a p-p-prank. B-Ben hasn’t t-told me, and I’m n-not asking.”

“Thank _God_ ,” said Quill.

“Thank God?” Candice asked.

“Yes—thank God—both for Rowan’s ability to stay out of detention and for the integrity of the bloody prank,” Quill replied. “Honestly, how long do you think the prank would be on for if Rowan knew about it? Our girl has lots of talents,” Quill patted Rowan’s back, “but lying to authority is not one of them.”

“Hear, h-hear,” Rowan answered. “Which is w-why I’m n-n-not asking.”

Candice pouted. “You’re no fun.”

“On the contrary, Rowan is being lots of fun,” Jon pointed out. “If she’d insisted on knowing, _then_ she’d be no fun. As it is … we get to be surprised with everyone else!” Jon waved his fork and beamed.

Then, bringing down his fork, he changed the subject. “So, does everyone have their Christmas plans all settled?”

“Zahira wrote to me and said that Mr. Hakim said I could work in his shop over the break if I want to,” Quill replied. “Under the table, and he won’t let me weld – but that should be fun. And money. Money is always good, too.”

“You sure you can’t get couple days off?” Candice cajoled. “Dad wrote and said he’s saving every episode of this series of _Top Gear_ on the DVR. You can stay with us for a couple days and we can watch them all!”

Quill’s jaw fell open, and he didn’t seem to have words to fill the silence.

Rowan glanced sidelong at Jon to see that Jon was glancing sidelong at her.

Thankfully – or not – it was Blair who spoke next. “Candice … are you sure your parents would be all right with you inviting a _boy_ home for the Christmas holidays?”

“Oh please, are you kidding? One, it’s Quill. Quill is the one who’s the closest to normal out of any of us.” She gestured around with her fork. “Two, my mum would probably be thanking her lucky stars that I had a boy I was interested in, at least until I told her that Quill and I are just friends. Three – I’m inviting him to my house to watch TV with me and my dad. My dad, right in the room with us. The whole time. And while there are some shows you could snog to, if Quill and I actually _wanted_ to snog each other …”

Candice frowned and put her elbow on the table, resting her chin on her hand. “You can’t, not to _Top Gear_. You’d catch something funny out of the corner of your eye, and then you’d start laughing, and you’d probably put an eye out or something, trying to snog and laugh at the same time.”

There was a long, wondering silence. Finally, Jon broke it, resting his head in his hands. “Candice … one of these days, you and I need to have a _long_ talk about snogging.”

“What?” Candice asked.

“How,” Aubrey asked, “do you think that you could _put an eye out_ because you saw something funny while you were snogging?”

“Well—I don’t know—I mean, you two are all up in each other’s personal spaces—I mean, if somebody put their nose in the wrong place—”

“And th-that’s enough,” Rowan interrupted. “Aubrey—what are you d-doing for the h-holiday?”

“I am so glad you asked, Rowan,” Aubrey replied. “We’re going on holiday in Venice. Should be fun!”

“I wish I was going to Venice …” Blair murmured.

“You know my parents would take you if you wanted to come,” Aubrey replied, nudging Blair. “Why don’t you just tell your parents you won’t be coming home for Christmas?”

“Oh—well—you know. Mother and Father are going to have their New Year’s Eve party, so—we’ll all be at home.” She took a deep breath and smoothed out her slacks. Ever since the slacks she had ordered from Gladrags had come in, she’d been changing out of her uniform skirt as soon as classes were over and putting them on. So far none of the teachers had said anything, and neither had Rowan or Jon. “Mother’s already sent me some—some dress robes drawings to look at. And she sent me the names of a couple of gentlemen she thinks I would—get along with. So … so I couldn’t possibly disappoint her.” Blair forced a shrug and tossed her curls over both shoulders.

Candice was making a face. “Dress robes?”

Aubrey’s jaw had fallen. “ _Gentlemen_?”

“Blair, honey, do you need a date?” Jon asked, leaning forward. “Because I can totally be your date for New Year’s Eve. I can beg Wendy to let me borrow something from the shop. And Austin won’t mind. His whole family has a big reunion together in Wales for the holiday. So it’ll be totally cool.”

“Hell, _I’ll_ be your date if it keeps your mum from throwing you to those— _gentlemen_ ,” Quill added. “Pretty sure Candice or Rowan would do it, too, if that wouldn’t make your mum blow a gasket.”

“Seriously, Blair,” Jon said. “I’m just going home to Swona for the holiday. Zach isn’t even going to be there, unless his dad flakes out on him again, which, let’s face it, is not exactly out of the question – so I can totally go with you. Just write your mum and tell her you already have a date.”

“I … I couldn’t ask you to …” Blair started, then turned away, swallowing.

She looked so miserable that Rowan wasn’t surprised when Aubrey caught their eyes, one by one, and shook his head. Rowan nodded. They’d figure this out – just not here and now, where if Blair got really upset, the entire school would be able to see it.

Jon leaned back, rather reluctantly, and Candice tentatively patted Blair’s shoulder. Rowan fished her wand out of her bag, pointed it at Blair, and concentrated.

Blair seemed to jump. She turned to Rowan with a puzzled frown. “Cheering Charm?”

“Well, we c-c-can’t f-fix this n-now,” Rowan pointed out, “and there’s n-n-no reason to l-let it r-ruin your d-dinner.”

Blair frowned and took a deep breath – but it was, if Rowan was any judge – a happy kind of frown. “You … you are all …”

“Wonderful, we know,” Jon answered with a cheeky grin. “And I mean what I said, Blair. I’ll be your be—your date if you need me to.”

“R-r-right,” Rowan said quickly, before Blair – or worse, Candice – could catch the near-slip and start to wonder about it. “S-s-so—Jon—Christmas on Swona?”

“Same as every year,” Jon shrugged. “Gonna be lonely without Zach around, though. Rowan, we’ve got an open invitation to spend a couple days with you in London, right?” Jon batted his eyelashes at her. “Especially poor Zach, because Merlin knows _he’s_ going to need to get away if his dad actually goes through on his threat to have Zach over for Christmas.”

“It’s hardly a _threat_ , Jon,” Blair scolded, but softly, and it sounded like her heart wasn’t in it.

Aubrey watched her very narrowly, and when he spoke next, it was not – entirely – to the point. “You know … Zach’s seventeen,” he said, not looking away from Blair. “If he doesn’t want to spend the holiday with his dad – he doesn’t have to. Doesn’t matter what it’s in the custody agreement, if there is one. Doesn’t apply anymore.”

Jon glanced at Blair once before turning to Aubrey. “You … have a point,” he said very slowly, “but—I think it’s more than just the custody agreement. Wendy doesn’t want Zach to hate his father.”

“And c-c-could you imagine how—d-disappointed Wendy would b-b-be if Zach—just d-d-didn’t g-go to his d-d-dad’s?” Rowan asked, catching Aubrey’s eye and nodding to Blair.

Aubrey took a deep breath, and his jaw clenched. “Well—maybe that’s true—but you know—at some point, you do have to grow up. Be your own—person. But—but at least …” Aubrey shook his head. “There’s always a spare sofa at your dad’s place, right, Rowan? If Zach—or anybody—needed to get away for a bit? And your dad is connected to the Floo network?”

Rowan’s jaw fell open. But it wasn’t because she objected to what Aubrey was implying. Not at all.

“Um, w-w-well, actually—I m-m-might be in Hogsmeade this y-year,” Rowan admitted, pushing her hair behind her ear and flushing.

That made everyone – Jon, Quill, Aubrey and Candice, even Blair – turn to Rowan.

“M-m-my d-d-dad wrote me this m-morning,” Rowan admitted. “He—um—’cause of what happened with my g-g-grandmother—he said if I want to spend Christmas w-w-with M-Mum – I can.” She shrugged.

The idea had its attractions. Being with her mum for Christmas would be fun – it would distract Elaine from the hell of knowing that her mother had been murdered. And Rowan was certain that it _would_ be hell, no matter what her mother tried to pretend.

As for Zach – and Blair – her mother’s house was connected to the Floo network, of course, so they were only a fireplace away if they needed a place to get away or a place to stay, if it came to that. So that wouldn’t be a problem.

She knew, too, that Ben would be staying at the castle over the holidays. Maybe if she was in Hogsmeade … did the teachers give the kids a Hogsmeade weekend over the holiday? Rowan couldn’t think of a reason why they shouldn’t. Maybe if she was in Hogsmeade, she would get to see Ben over the holiday.

On the other hand … there was Mr. Bellerose, who might be in town over the holiday.

And there was also the thought of her dad, spending Christmas all by himself.

“So—what are you going to do?” asked Candice, cutting right to the heart of the matter as always.

Rowan could only shrug. “I d-d-don’t know.” 

* * *

The owl came with the evening post – which was a lot lighter than the morning post, usually bringing only urgent messages or things from people who were very close. But the bird had the pompous overstuffed look of a Ministry owl and Zach knew – even before the bird circled – who it was from, what it said, and probably even damned close to the exact language that would be used, though it was heavier than he would have expected.

He took the letter, refusing to let it ruin his dinner, the parchment crammed unceremoniously into his hip pocket. Miri looked from Zach’s face – which was probably stormy – to Spencer. “What’s wrong?”

“Bet you money the letter is from Zach’s dad. He’s—a bit of a git,” Spencer murmured back.

“I probably lucked out that my dad left.” Miri poked at her sautéed spinach, which was—rather unlike her. She loved spinach. Regaled them with tales of growing it in a pot in the window of their flat (to the horror of her mother who had never pictured spinach as a houseplant) and how Henry liked to do a riff off the shrimp monologue from _Forrest Gump_ but with spinach. Zach had actually been rather grateful that he wasn’t the one looking completely puzzled by the reference, thanks to Robert and summer movies. “He didn’t have time to be an arse.”

“I should tell Professor Sprout you’re cursing.” Dara simpered from down the table, before Miri looked both ways and, seeing no adults in the vicinity – other than Zach, who was, of course, totally engrossed in choosing a toast corner – flipped her off.

“Miri!” Chandler said in exaggerated shock. “That’s even worse.”

“Go soak your head,” Juliette said. “I have a Divination exam to study for, and I want to not foresee the three of you fighting.”

“How did you even become a prefect?” Chandler asked.

“I lied a lot,” Juliette said, her face rather warning as she raised it from the book of diagrams she was studying from. “Actually, I punched a seventh-year in the face. In front of Professor Lipskit. Six of one …” She trailed off, then looked back at her book significantly.

Chandler and Dara took the hint – though if they believed that was actually true or not, Zach couldn’t guess and wouldn’t have wanted to.

“So,” Trevor offered, “Miri, how’d you do on that essay for History of Magic? You got that back today, didn’t you?”

“Binns said my ‘interpretation was interesting, but unsubstantiated.’ I got seventy-five percent.” Miri shook her head with a cynicism that was more at home on, say, a sixth-year Slytherin than a first-year Hufflepuff.

“I did warn you.” Trevor ruffled her hair.

“He’s _wrong_!” Miri retorted. “Do you really think that I should go around telling Professor Binns what he wants to hear rather than the truth?”

“Yes!” Every student in earshot who was higher than second year joined in on that one. Miri even almost chuckled about it, and she picked up her fork and returned to her food. Zach was glad for it. Miri had never been a large girl, but she actually looked skinnier now than at the start of the year. Given the quality of food at Hogwarts – that was pretty rare.

Leaving his friends in the common room after dinner, Zach wandered down toward the dungeons, mostly looking for an empty stretch of hallway. He opened the envelope and scanned over the contents of the first sheet parchment.

Jamaica. Leaving before the school holiday, due back just before the new year.

The second sheet “apologized,” or rather dismissed the fact that he was late with Zach’s birthday present. Apparently Michael believed that it was worth the wait. Or something. Zach didn’t pay much attention. He just slumped down against the wall and looked at the parchment.

It was stamped with Michael’s Ministry information, but certainly not the best stock Michael had – like Zach was some low-level drudge in the diplomatic corps of some foreign country, due something to make it look all formal, but nothing beyond that.

Zach folded the letter back in half, then a few more folds rendered it into a decent enough aeroplane. Over the summer, while they were visiting Rowan, he and Jon had been throwing paper aeroplanes around in the living room while Rowan had gone to an afternoon seminar on –CSR? CSI? CPR? – something she needed for her certifications. Robert had come in from work and walked right into the path of Zach’s plane.

Zach got the impression that Robert didn’t know quite what to do with Zach and Jon sometimes. There had always been a touch of bemusement – a little bit of puzzlement maybe, too – though that might have been directly from the fact that Jon was full of questions about the Muggle world, and even if Robert went into deeply technical terms, Jon listened, fascinated, asking questions about whatever Robert was talking about.

He had picked up the aeroplane that had beaned him in the head and looked it over. Far from being angry – as Stan would have been – or dismissive that Zach was wasting time on folding planes – though what he and Jon were supposed to do on a rainy afternoon while Rowan was busy that was more worthy of their time in Michael’s eyes, Zach couldn’t guess – Robert had asked whose plane it was.

Zach had admitted it was his, and Robert pointed out some – completely esoteric as far as Zach was concerned – improvements that could be made to the design.

Seeing the puzzlement on Zach’s face, he’d demonstrated ways to crease the paper, proper counterweight, good wing design. Rowan had walked in more than an hour later with several boxes of takeaway to find the living room utterly littered with aeroplanes.

Something a bit like sadness had crossed Robert’s face when Zach had profusely thanked him for the tips. It had been there again when Michael had dropped Zach off after just a quick lunch, the only time Zach had spent with his dad that summer, though Robert said nothing to Michael or even about him. He’d just clasped Zach on the shoulder and told him that Elaine had been by with butterbeers and a grab bag of “proper sweets,” but warned Zach that he was making curry for the evening and would be severely disappointed if Zach _completely_ ruined his appetite.

Spencer’s dad, Stillwell, had taught Zach how to do a hairpin turn on a broom in Quidditch and how to navigate a lake in a boat by the stars. Juliette’s dad, Zeke, had taught Zach how to write music and how to make his family’s “super secret” Coq au Vin recipe. Trevor’s dad, Marlon, had helped Zach carve the wooden panels for the new pie safe Zach had made his mother for her birthday.

And the last thing Michael had taught Zach? How to pick a wine to go with snails. Bleh.

Zach tossed the aeroplane down the empty hall, only to blink as it turned in mid-air to land beside him. He was still looking at it when someone dropped to the floor on the other side of him in a whirl of musky wood and soft floral scent.

“I figured you might want that back,” Vivianne said with a faint, rather drawn smile. The tension had been in Vivianne’s face ever since they’d seen the headline on Monday.

“It’s just a letter from Michael; I’d say it’s better lost,” Zach told her. “Did your great-aunt reply about why you didn’t know about the _Prophet_ before—well, the _Prophet_?”

“We fire-talked, earlier, before dinner. Apparently Yaxley swore up and down that she would warn me.” Vivianne shook her head. “Great-Aunt Dindrane must really have been scrambling in the wake of this if she trusted _Rosie_ with that.” The scorn practically dripped from her tone. She cocked her head to the side and picked something up from the floor.

It was the watch his father had given him; without so much as a by-your-leave, not that he would have denied her the leave, she clicked it open.

“Nice,” Vivianne commented. Zach looked at her curiously. “I recognize the watchmaker, my—grandfather had a watch by him. It was one of the few things he left me.”

“Why?” Zach asked, curiously.

“He left most of his estate to my aunt. Mother was pissed, by the way.” Vivianne shrugged. “And—well—I remember sitting on his lap, clicking his watch open and closed when he couldn’t sneak me treats.”

“Oh—want it?” Zach asked.

“Want—what?” Vivianne’s brows drew in.

“The watch.”  

* * *

Vivianne did not bother to hide how her eyebrows rose.

But Zach seemed nothing if not sincere. Cavalier, perhaps, but sincerely so.

And there was something almost … hurt in his eyes.

Vivianne could have done any number of things in response. She could have made a joke, pointed out that the pocket watch was a bit too masculine for her tastes. She could have pointed out that she already had a watch that would be only be pried from her cold dead hands, so she didn’t need another.

She didn’t do any of those things.

Carefully, she set the watch down – on the opposite side of her as Zach, but that was mostly a precaution against what might happen next. Then, she took his hand in one of hers. The other she gently trailed through his hair. “What’s wrong?”

“Noth—”

A finger against his lips put an end to that. “You will notice,” Vivianne said lightly, “I asked not, ‘Is something wrong?’ but rather, ‘What is wrong?’ So if you please …”

She removed the finger, raised an eyebrow, and waited.

Zach sighed. He leaned his head against the wall, eyes shut. “Just read the letter. It’ll be faster.”

Vivianne frowned, but with some difficulty – doing it one-handed and all – she got the letter unfolded and read it.

Her eyebrows rose.

“Jamaica? And he didn’t even invite you?” Viviane folded the letter – sensibly, not in an aeroplane – and set it to the side. “How rude.”

That made Zach open his eyes. “Rude?”

“Well, he implies that the only reason he’s leaving is for work, and that otherwise you would have spent Christmas together. I highly doubt that whatever … conference he claims to be attending would do actual work _on_ Christmas. He could bring you along as well.”

“He leaves before I get out of school.” Zach’s voice was tight, and Vivianne could almost hear the thousands of things that he wasn’t saying.

She thought about pointing out the obvious, that a man who could afford to buy his son a watch from Tempes-Fuget could certainly afford to put him on a ship and get him to Jamaica once the school holidays began. She thought about pointing out that, in addition to that, if Mr. Duncan could not afford both, then he could have simply brought Zach to Jamaica with him and called that his birthday present. She could have added that if Mr. Duncan knew his son at all, he would have realized Zach was infinitely more likely to appreciate that than any watch.

She didn’t.

Instead, Vivianne scooted closer and rested her head on Zach’s shoulder. She groped for the watch and gently deposited it on his lap. “You shouldn’t offer to give that away to the first person who walks up to you. Somebody might take you up on that.”

Zach opened his eyes and raised one eyebrow.

Vivianne smiled and shrugged. “Take it from a Slytherin – even if you don’t want it, you can still make it useful. Sell it and buy yourself something nice, something you’ll like. Buy your mother a nice Christmas gift.” Impishly, she added, “Or buy something pretty for your girlfriend.”

Zach stared at her. Vivianne batted her eyelashes at him.

He took that in the spirit it was meant and laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Then he swallowed and squeezed her hand. “Thanks … by the way.”

“Hmm?” Vivianne asked.

“For …” Zach let the sentence trail and simply lifted their joined hands.

“Ah.” If it were humanly possible – and it may not have been, but Vivianne was going to give it her damnedest try anyway – she snuggled a little closer to him. “Well, you know, it does take one to know one, so to speak. I mean – having a set of rotten parents does make it easier to … empathize.”

Zach didn’t answer right away. Together they watched the flickering candle flames across the hall.

When he did answer his voice was raw, strained, and he wasn’t looking at Vivianne. His answer, too, was not quite to the point. “My mum doesn’t want me to hate him.”

Vivianne frowned. “Huh?”

“My dad,” Zach shrugged.

Yes, that part she understood—what she didn’t understand was—

_… Oh._

Vivianne glanced at their linked hands. It did not escape her notice that Zach’s was trembling slightly.

_Oh, Zach._

“… You know what my grandmother say— _used_ to say to my mother?” she asked.

Zach glanced at her and shook his head.

“She always would tell Mother – usually after a breakup, when Mother was in the ‘burn all the pictures and look into American voodoo curses’ stage of the proceedings – that hate is not the opposite of love. Indifference is.”

Zach looked confused, which was not the reaction Vivianne had hoped for. For her grandmother had always tried to tell her mother that if she hated someone, she let him have power over her. She let him control her thoughts, her emotions, her peace of mind.

_“And is your hate truly worth it?”_ Igraine would ask. _“Letting him control your mind and your heart on top of hurting it? Let it go, Morgause. Take back control of yourself! For at the end of the day, what else is there in this world that you can truly control?”_

Vivianne’s mother had never heeded the lesson. And Vivianne was not sure it was a lesson Zach would want to heed.

“So perhaps,” Vivianne continued slowly, “hating him – wouldn’t be the worst thing. If you hate him – there’s some feeling there. Feeling that can be turned to the other way, if he …” Vivianne glanced at the letter. “Well, if he ever …”

“Stops being an arse?” Zach asked.

“Let’s go with that.” Vivianne nodded. “But – if you were to let go of the hate – turn it into indifference – then someday, if he were to shape up … it might be too late. The feeling would be gone … and I don’t think it would easy to get it back. It might not even be possible.”

“I don’t think my mum wants me to hate him _or_ be indifferent to him,” Zach pointed out.

Vivianne shrugged. “Well, we can’t always do what our parents want. Or even our grandparents, should they happen to be the … salient presences in one’s life.” She nuzzled against Zach’s shoulder. She felt him sigh, relax, lean closer to her. “Sometimes we have to do what’s best for us, Zach. And if hating him is the closest you can get to loving him … or even liking him … then do the best you can until he shapes up or you give up.”

She hesitated a moment and added, “And for Merlin’s sake, Zach, don’t fold his letters into paper aeroplanes and throw them in corridors this close to the Slytherin dungeons. Do you have any idea how good blackmail this would make?”

“Blackmail?” Zach asked.

“Do you want the entire school to know that your father is a complete arse?”

“… Well, not particularly, no.”

“There you have it, then. Blackmail.”

Zach pulled away slightly to watch Vivianne. “You know,” he pointed out, “I think the Queen of the Slytherins might have found my paper aeroplane. Should I be worried?”

“Worried?” Vivianne pouted. She couldn’t do it quite as naturally as Belle, but it was, in her estimation, a fair pout. “Would I do something like that to you, Zach?”

He smiled.

And even though there were still so many problems – Zach’s father was an arse, Vivianne’s grandmother had been murdered, and she didn’t know who had done it or _how_ it had been done and she had barely gotten _anything_ from Great-Aunt Dindrane (though she had promised to write) and part of her just wanted to scream – Vivianne smiled as well.

Because right now, for this moment, she had won.

And right now, for this moment, that was enough.


	35. Chapter 34: Who Is That Girl I See?

**Chapter 34: Who Is That Girl I See?**

The two sheets of paper – one lined notebook, the other probably grabbed at the last minute out of the paper feed tray of a printer – fluttered down toward the table. Ben, being a little quicker than his friends, caught them before they actually hit Kenny’s breakfast plate. Kenny, for his part, was looking like someone had just punched him in the stomach.

“So who is the bastard?” Ringo asked, peering at Kenny’s face.

“What bastard?” There was a manic light in Kenny’s eyes.

“The bastard in the letter? You look like—”

Kenny laughed, his face splitting into a huge grin.

“No bastard! Or well, if there is a bastard, he lost.” Kenny threw his head back and more or less howled.

“Great—our pal’s become a werewolf.” Cameron sopped up his egg with toast.

Kenny grabbed the papers out of Ben’s hand and thrust one of them back at Ben. Probably because he wasn’t eating anything sticky or drippy for breakfast.

“‘You won. - Luca,’” Ben read out loud. “Kimmy’s gonna be at your mom’s for the holidays?”

“The whole Christmas break. Oh, sweet cursed orange parka, she’s going to be there! Christmas might actually be more than me and mum sitting there moping while waiting for the phone to ring and Kimmy to call,” Kenny said almost breathlessly, waving the lined notebook paper. Probably a letter from his mother, as the likelihood that Kenny’s dad would actually write his son to tell him about the holiday was somewhere between “none” and “Satan’s skating partners with Hitler for the Brimstone Olympics.”

“That is awesome, dude. Insert a totally not-gay bro hug here.” Ringo grinned.

“Right, no gay feels. That led to uncomfortable questions from Donna after you got that letter from your dad telling you your mum was outta rehab,” Kenny laughed.

“Did it really?”

“No, but it made a good line, right?” Kenny said.

“You two are nuts,” Booker opined from the end of the table.

The two in question looked at each other then laughed.

“But in a good way,” Ben said. “Definitely in a good way.” 

* * *

The wind seemed bound and determined to whistle through every loose stone and high window in Ravenclaw Tower, and as a result, the Ravenclaws were nesting. Blankets had been stolen from every bed and every trunk, oversized jumpers had been tossed over every type of shirt up to and including other jumpers, and the upperclassmen had Conjured additional blankets for anyone who needed them.

Candice was wrapped in one Jon had made, looking something like mound of soft-serve ice cream with her head and arms sticking out. Meanwhile, Quill kept shooting sparks at the fireplace in their little alcove in the hopes of making the fire a little warmer. Jon and Rowan were sharing a quilt Rowan had Conjured as they worked on their Charms homework. Only Aubrey seemed to be immune to the cold, though anyone who knew him knew that he put Self-Warming charms on all of his clothing the minute the first day of fall hit and didn’t take them off again until it was practically June.

For the moment, there was little sound in their little alcove other than the scratching of quills, the flipping of parchment, and Quill softly swearing about drafty old castles and extolling the virtues of central heating in turns.

Then Blair came in.

Jon was the first to look up. “Hey, Blair, what’s …”

He trailed off, and Rowan looked up.

Blair looked – not just pale, white, chalk-white, the kind of white that made Rowan sit up and try to fight her way out from under the blanket. Her eyes were glassy and hollow. And when she slowly sank to the sofa beside Aubrey, she moved as if she were under water, or perhaps in a dream.

“Blair?” asked Aubrey, putting a hand on Blair’s back.

She flinched away.

“Blair?” Jon echoed, with no small note of alarm. Even Quill and Candice were staring at her.

“Is s-s-something wrong?” Rowan asked, which was a stupid question because of _course_ something was wrong, but somebody had to ask it.

Blair looked up. Her eyes went from one friend to the next.

“Can—can you put up a Silencing Charm?” she asked. “Or—something? I don’t—I don’t think I want to try to do any spells right now.”

Quill’s answer was to point his wand at the entrance to their study nook and call out, “ _Muffliato_!”

“Thanks,” Blair said dully.

And for a long, long moment, that was all she said. She sat slumped forward, her hair hanging down on either side of her face, shielding it.

Then she swallowed. “I … I just made my Animagus breakthrough.”

“Wait—seriously?” Candice asked, trying to sit up eagerly but too tangled up in her blanket to manage it. “Blair, that’s awesome! What did you turn into?”

Blair didn’t answer.

Rowan glanced sidelong at Jon to see Jon glancing sidelong at her.

Then Blair did answer. It was so soft at first that Rowan wasn’t sure she had heard it – or that she had heard it correctly.

“A … peacock.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed, and so did Rowan’s. Quill cocked his head to one side. And Aubrey just watched Blair.

“That’s cool!” Candice said, because someone had to say something and she alone seemed able to pull it off. She even sounded enthusiastic … she probably _was_ enthusiastic. “I mean, I’m not going to lie, not what I pictured you as, Blair, but—”

“No—no—you don’t understand! A _peacock_!” Blair repeated. “A pea _cock_! With the—” She waved her hands, fanning them out and nearly smacking Aubrey in the nose. “With the feathers!”

“Well, yeah, with the feathers,” Candice replied. “I mean, you can’t have a peacock without the feathers. They’re kinda the whole …”

She stopped.

She frowned.

She looked around the circle to see everyone doing much the same thing – looking around the circle, looking at Blair, looking around the circle again.

Somebody had to say something. It wouldn’t be Rowan; Rowan knew the stammer would be too much to even bother trying. And the boys seemed too thunderstruck to speak.

So it fell to Candice to state – or ask – the obvious. “Aren’t … um … aren’t the peacocks with the feathers— _boy_ peacocks?”

In answer, Blair moaned and covered her face with her hands.

“G-g-g-girl p-p-p-peacocks are c-c-c-called p-p-p-peahens,” Rowan heard herself murmur, mostly to Candice – maybe to all of them.

Candice’s jaw fell. “Well, shit,” she whispered.

And Blair sobbed.

Fighting her way out of the blanket was more urgent now – and more difficult, because Jon was trying to do the same thing – but Rowan had barely gotten herself half out before Blair started speaking. “Is it—too _fucking_ much to ask to be _normal_?” she sobbed. “I try! I try so hard! I—I wear dresses and I put on makeup and—and my _hair_ —and I try to be polite and proper and—why can’t it fucking _work_?”

“Blair,” Quill said very quietly and very slowly, “I don’t think changing who you are on the outside to change who you are on the inside has ever worked for anybody. Ever.”

“Why _not_?” Blair demanded. “Why—do you know what Professor Puccini did when I changed? And when I changed back? He—he just _stared_ at me! Now even he knows that I’m a—a freak!”

“You are _not_ a freak, Blair,” Jon said. Glancing sidelong as Rowan, who could only nod without a word, he went on, “Look—take it from someone who’s been—maybe not _there_ , but in the same neighborhood, kind of—”

“No, you haven’t!” Blair shot back. “You—you know who you are! And—and so you like boys. So what? There’s a name for that! There’s a—a _word_ for that!”

“There’s quite a few words for that,” Quill muttered darkly. “And usually only—”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it!” Blair fired back. “He’s gay! There’s nothing—that’s not an insult! It’s just a thing! A thing you can be! And maybe—maybe people don’t like it, and maybe you and Jon had to—to hex and punch quite a few people when Jon came out—but at least people understood it, at least it has a name, at least—”

“T-t-trans,” Rowan interrupted.

Everyone – Aubrey, Blair, and Jon with confusion; Candice with a gasp; and Quill with eyebrows raised – looked at Rowan.

“What?” Blair asked.

“T-t-trans,” Rowan repeated. “That—that’s w-w-what it’s c-c-called. T-t-transsexual—or t-t-transgender. I’m n-n-not—I know there is a d-d-difference, I’m j-j-just n-n-not s-s-sure what it is …”

She glanced at Quill and Candice for help. Candice was nodding. But Quill was frowning. “I think Blair’s the only person who can answer that.”

“What?” Candice asked, looking up at Quill. “How? She’s never even heard the—”

“Not—not the difference between the two,” Quill waved his hand, “that’s not important right now, but whether—whether …” He glanced at Blair and shrugged helplessly. “Whether that’s—what you are.”

“Whether I’m—what?” Blair asked, looking from Quill to Candice to Rowan with something like …

Hope?

Rowan swallowed, because somebody had to explain, and it probably wouldn’t be Quill, and it really shouldn’t be Candice. “T-t-trans. It m-m-means—someone who—who f-f-feels like the opposite s-s-sex of w-w-what—what their b-b-body l-l-looks like. I think—”

“It’s a boy born in a girl’s body, or a girl born in a boy’s body,” Candice filled in, grinning.

Blair’s jaw fell. “Really?” she whispered. “That—that’s a thing?”

Rowan never thought she would hear that particular combination of words from prim and proper Blair’s mouth, but considering she’d let out—

_… She?_

Rowan very quickly decided that she would bring up the question of pronouns later. Much later. For now, _she_ would do just fine for Blair until Blair decided otherwise.

“Yep,” Quill said with a shrug.

And when Quill said that, Blair wilted. Not collapsed – but all of the tension seemed to rush out of her at once, and she flopped back onto the sofa.

Now that the worst of the crisis seemed to have passed, Rowan could easily untangle herself from the blanket and sit on Blair’s other side. She hesitantly put a hand on Blair’s shoulder.

Blair didn’t shake it off.

But Blair did sit up. “What—what happens, then? To—trans people?”

“Sex-change operation,” Quill replied. He sat down next to Candice and shrugged.

“At least in the Muggle world,” Candice added.

“Wait—you mean …?” Blair asked.

“Doctors—um—I don’t know. They do surgery, so that trans people’s bits match what’s in their head and not—um—what they were born with,” Candice explained.

“An operation? Like—” Blair blanched. “Like—cutting people _open_?”

“Operations are n-n-not c-c-considered a f-f-f-form of t-t-torture in the M-M-Muggle world,” Rowan stepped in quickly.

“Well—” Candice began, and thanks to Quill’s hand on her mouth, did not finish.

“They’re _n-n-not_ ,” Rowan insisted, glaring sidelong at Candice. “They’re j-j-just—they _w-w-work_ , all r-r-right? About as w-w-well as anything that’s n-n-not m-m-magic w-will.”

“But there’s got to be a better way,” Aubrey muttered. “I mean, for Merlin’s sake. You can change yourself into an animal. There’s got to—there has to be an easier way to resolve a few … bits.”

Blair gasped. And blinked. And stared at Aubrey.

“… What?” asked Aubrey.

“You—you’re not mad?” she asked.

“Mad about …?” Aubrey asked.

“Aubrey … for over a year …” Blair swallowed and bit her lip.

“For over a year what?” Aubrey raised an eyebrow. “Blair, you’ve been my best friend since we ran onto each other on the train in first year – remember?”

Her lips starting to tremble. “You—you’re not upset? I mean—you—we pretended—”

“The key word being ‘pretended,’” Aubrey answered. “I knew you didn’t have any more romantic interest in me than you did in Candice … or that chair over there. And as for my romantic interest in you …” Aubrey shrugged. “Blair, snogging you would be like snogging my sister … or my brother, as it happens.”

That was what it took for Blair to break down finally.

“And that’s enough,” said Jon. “Come here, Blair.”

Not that Blair came or went anywhere. She was not in any condition to go anywhere. But everyone else could come to her and wrap her in a big hug – Jon, Rowan, and Aubrey first, and Quill and Candice once they got Candice unwrapped from the blankets.

“Hey,” Candice said, once Blair had calmed down enough that one of them could get a word in edgewise, “you know, Blair, if you’re going to be a boy, you might want to chop off that hair—”

“NO!” said Aubrey, Quill, and Rowan all at once – Rowan not even stuttering.

“Aww, why not?”

“Because if Blair is starting things off as a boy,” Quill answered, “she’s starting off on the right foot, not with a five-minute Candice fringe special.”

And Candice sighed.

“You lot are _no fun_.”

* * *

“I can appreciate the founders’ attempts to keep boys out of the girls’ dormitories, but, Merlin’s balls, it would be _so much easier_ if, when Miri and Dara are going at it, somebody other than me—like say _you_ for example, Zachary—could go into the room and break up the fight. I can get them to stop fighting, but it makes me feel like I’m kicking puppies.” Juliette collapsed onto the sofa with a long-suffering sigh that seemed to deflate her curvy body.

“Merlin’s balls? I don’t really want to think about that one, Juliette,” Spencer told her.

Ignoring Spencer – or mostly so – Juliette sighed again. “And now Miri has locked herself in a cupboard and refuses to come out while Dara is there—and Dara has responded to this by plopping herself in front of the cupboard, so I’m not sure Miri could come out if she wanted to. If I thought it would solve anything I would go to Professor Sprout, but—in all likelihood Dara would act contrite for the amount of time it took for the professor to leave, then go right back to being the little hellspawn she is.”

“I wonder if we could get Professor Sprout to sign off putting Miri in the other dorm. There’s still one bed open in that room, isn’t there?” Zach asked.

They talked about that for a moment, but the problem was until Miri asked to be changed to a different dorm, nobody knew if it could be done by someone not personally involved. And Miri still wasn’t even admitting that Dara was bullying her, let alone at the point where she’d actually ask Professor Sprout to move her.

“Juliette! Juliette!” Penny, one of the first-year girls that shared the dorm with Miri and Dara, came running out, her face drained to paper white.

“What?”

“Miri was banging on the cupboard door to get Dara to let her out—and Dara wouldn’t—and Miri said something about needing her—breathing thing.”

“Inhaler?” Spencer asked.

“Yes! And now Miri’s not responding at all, and Dara’s still in front of the door!” Penny cried worriedly.

“Oh! Frigging—UGH! I am going to kill that kid—unless she’s managed to kill Miri! Then I’ll just let the Wizengamot send Dara to frigging Azkaban! And hope they rustle up some dementors or something!” Juliette called as she vaulted over the sofa and loped for the first-years’ dorm. Zach and Spencer hurried to the mouth of the tunnel leading to the girls’ dorms.

A few incredibly tense moments later, Juliette came out carrying Miri, who was limp and unresponsive in the older girl’s grasp. Spencer took Miri from Juliette.

“I’ll take her up to the infirmary,” Spencer told her.

“I’ll get Miri’s inhaler and meet you up there,” Zach told him. Spencer nodded but had already turned and was heading up for the door.

“Dara!” Juliette snarled; it wasn’t even directed at Zach – and Dara had more than earned it – but even so, Zach winced at Juliette’s tone.

“What?” Dara growled sullenly. Juliette grabbed the first-year by the ear and marched purposefully toward the door.

“We are going to go see Professor Sprout.”

“Zach?” Penny asked worriedly, scuffling her toe against the wood floor. “Miri’s gonna be okay, isn’t she?”

“I’m sure that Madam Pomfrey can fix her up right as rain.” Zach smiled. “Do you know where Miri’s inhaler is?”

“No. She hid it. Because Dara kept taking it—and I think her mum got mad at her for having to have another one sent.” Penny looked on the edge of tears.

“That’s okay,” Zach told her, patting her shoulder comfortingly. “ _Accio_ Miri’s inhaler!” He waved his wand and a moment later the strange contrivance floated into view. He shoved it in his pocket. “Thank you for telling us.”

“We don’t like Dara all that much either,” Penny told him, her round face earnest. “She’s pretty awful most of the time.”

Zach nodded and headed for the common room door, leaving murmuring Hufflepuffs behind him.

By the time he reached the tower, Miri was being tended to by the school matron. Spencer paced back and forth outside a drawn curtain.

“If it would do a damned bit of good, I know you’re not supposed to hit girls or kids younger than you—but I would beat that brat bloody.”

“I know—if it makes you feel any better, Juliette dragged her off by the ear to see Professor Sprout,” Zach said, putting a hand on Spencer’s shoulder.

“Maybe a little,” Spencer admitted. “I don’t know anything about asthma, not really, but I’m pretty sure if you stop breathing, you die, right?”

“Um, eventually. Rowan could tell you.”

“The point being what would have happened if Penny hadn’t come and gotten Juliette?” Spencer asked, pushing his glasses up his nose and glaring at the far wall.

Zach’s stomach clenched. He … hadn’t thought about that.

“Rowan says that almost anything that Muggles have, wizards can cure. Maybe we could see if asthma is one of those things?” Zach offered with a shrug.

“Well—that keeps this from happening again—maybe—but …” Spencer shook his head.

“What happens next time? And there’ll be a next time and another next time and another and another?” Zach sighed.

“Exactly. And there’s nothing we can do.” Spencer looked at the curtain, and so did Zach.

“We can _hope_. My mum says that hope is one of the most powerful things in the world.”

* * *

The next morning at breakfast, the school was buzzing about the little Hufflepuff first-year who had nearly suffocated in a cupboard, locked in there by another little Hufflepuff first-year. Most people weren’t giving too much credit to the rumors (“It must have been some kind of an accident. What kind of Hufflepuff would lock a girl in a cupboard until she nearly dies?”), but Vivianne could not help but notice that Zach’s friend Miri was conspicuously absent, and Zach and his friends all looked vaguely miserable.

Well, not Juliette. Juliette looked about ready to spit, and not in her default “My name is Juliette Gurriere and the world exasperates me to no end” way.

Vivianne glanced sidelong at Sybilla, who was watching the first-year section of the Hufflepuff table very, very carefully. Vivianne nudged her. “You know, it’s terribly unsporting to use first-years for target practice.”

“I believe it may in fact be worse to lock a girl in a closet until she nearly dies,” Sybilla pointed out.

Vivianne nodded, conceding the point, but added, “It’s also terribly unwise to get between Mademoiselle Juliette and the latest target of her wrath.”

“Ah, but Vivianne, you forget, Mademoiselle Juliette is a prefect. Whereas I … am not.” Sybilla smirked and twirled her walnut wand in her fingertips. “I’m sure we could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Vivianne chuckled, the next response already forming—but she stopped as the shadow of wings fell over the Slytherin table.

Today was the kind of sunny, glorious day that sometimes occurred in late fall – as if the sun knew it was going to be defeated, but wasn’t going down without a fight. Vivianne had to shield her eyes as she looked up, scanning the owls for one particular—

_There!_

Great-Aunt Dindrane’s long-eared owl, Blackstone, was gliding in for a landing. Vivianne hurriedly downed the rest of her tea shoved the last bit of toast into her mouth. If this was the letter she’d been waiting for—

It was. Blackstone held out his leg and Vivianne’s eyes went wide. Not only was the letter addressed to _Miss Vivianne Gorlois – Private and Confidential_ , but the seal was made of green and purple wax melded together in a way that was vaguely reminiscent of a yin-yang sign. The seal was further embossed by being stamped with the Gorlois family seal.

Vivianne hissed. How many times as a child had she seen that seal and been admonished never to touch it? Great-Aunt Dindrane did not mess around; if anyone other than the lawful recipient tried to open one of her letters, they would get a painful bite to the fingers if they were lucky, worse if they weren’t.

Vivianne gave Blackstone a tickle under the chin, fed him a piece of bacon, grabbed her bag and the letter and hurried away without a word to her compatriots – not even to Sybilla.

She had, she guessed, twenty minutes until Transfiguration. With luck …

There was an empty classroom standing open just outside the Great Hall. Vivianne slipped into it and muttered a charm to lock the door.

Then she took a seat at one of the desks. Taking a deep breath – her fingers still smarting with the memories of dozens of accidental nips and bites – she carefully opened the seal.

Great-Aunt Dindrane’s letter covered three pages in close, small, but impossibly neat writing. All were on her official letterhead, possibly bespelled against further spying.

Vivianne took another deep breath and reminded her breakfast in no uncertain terms that it was to stay where it was.

She began to read.

_Dear Vivianne,_

_First, allow me to apologize to you again for the manner in which you found out about the investigation into your grandmother’s death. I assure you, it was not my intention. That being said, we have all learned a lesson from this. Should I need to speak to you in an urgent manner in the future, I shall contact the Headmaster directly._

_Now, as for the facts. I am afraid that what we know at this juncture is very little. The Aurors, I suspect, know more, but as yet they are only sharing the minimum of information with us. We – Great-Aunt Laurelle, Great-Aunt Enid, Aunt Ragnell, and myself – have debated pressing them for more information, but at the moment, we have decided to let the Aurors pursue their investigation with a minimum of interference. We have also ordered all Gorloises who are of age to cooperate fully with the investigation. We are quite certain that this despicable crime is not a clan matter._

So her grandmother’s inner circle did not think that one of the clan had murdered Igraine. Vivianne swallowed. That was … comforting, in a way.

What was far less comforting was that Great-Aunt Dindrane had not specifically said that this was not a _family_ matter.

Vivianne shook her head and kept reading.

_That being said, here are the facts as we know them:_

  1. _Your grandmother was murdered in the gardens between 12:45 PM, when the house-elf Ettie last saw her, and 3:30 PM, when she was discovered._
  2. _During this time, the wards admitted one person to Caer Tintagel. They had been weakened, as your grandmother was expecting a guest._
  3. _The guest your grandmother was expecting did not murder her. This guest did not arrive until after your grandmother was discovered and has an excellent alibi for the time during which the murder must have occurred._
  4. _Your grandmother did, in fact, technically die of a heart attack. Upon further examination, the Healers discovered that the fatal event was triggered by multiple applications of a Shocking Spell. This spell is actually used on the Continent to revive the victims of heart attacks, so it is perhaps understandable why it was not rigorously questioned upon the Healers’ first examination._
  5. _Your grandmother’s planned guest is cooperating fully with this investigation._



_As you can see, what we do know is dwarfed by all that we do not know. There is a great deal of speculation afoot and practically every member of the clan has a theory, but theories and speculation are scarcely worth the air used to utter them or the parchment to write them._

_I can say that no one has yet been asked to assist the Aurors with their enquiries. I can also say that the Aurors have not been forthcoming to us as to who their chief suspect is._

_Lastly, I can tell you that while your aunt, Elaine O’Blake, is not part of the investigation – it would not be proper – she did play a role in assisting the clan to press the Aurors to investigate._

_Vivianne, I understand that it is difficult for you, knowing that this investigation is in progress without being able to know what, precisely, that progress is. You can rest assured that I will be in full communication with you in the days ahead. As soon as we are acquainted with the facts, I will ensure that you know them._

_Concentrate on your studies, Vivianne, and let us take care of the business of the clan. Also, do not hesitate to write if you have questions._

_Sincerely,_

_Dindrane Rowena Gorlois_

_PS: Your Aunt Nell insists that I relate to you that if you need anything or simply wish to talk, that you can feel free to write to her, or, indeed, to any of us._

And there ended the letter.

Vivianne closed her eyes and swallowed.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, but it didn’t feel very long before someone knocked on the door. “Vivianne?” That was Belle. “Are you in there?”

Hurriedly, Vivianne folded the letter – the two halves of the seal joined together when they touched – and stuffed it in her bag. She pointed her wand at the door and took off the charm. “Yes.”

Belle was first into the room, but she was followed by Sybilla – and Cornelia. “Is everything all right?” Belle asked.

Vivianne sighed and shook her head. “It was a letter from Great-Aunt Dindrane.” When even Sybilla looked confused, Vivianne clarified, “Our solicitor.”

Sybilla hissed, Cornelia’s eyes went wide, and Belle gasped. “Oh, Vivianne,” Belle murmured, coming into the room and putting an arm around Vivianne’s shoulders. “Was it about your grandmother?”

Vivianne nodded.

“Do they know who did it yet?” Cornelia asked, slipping into the seat next to Vivianne. The question, ghoulish as it sounded, was not unsympathetic.

Vivianne shook her head.

“Was she able to tell you anything useful at all?” Sybilla asked, Summoning a chair from one of the other desks and sitting between Cornelia and Vivianne.

“Not really,” Vivianne admitted. “I mean—I know a bit more—but not—”

“Oh, Vivianne,” Belle murmured.

“We can make an excuse for you if you don’t want to go to Transfiguration,” Cornelia pointed out. “We’ll tell Professor Puccini you’re having girl troubles. You know he never asks if people tell him they’re having girl troubles.”

“Even if some people like to claim it three different times in the same month,” Sybilla muttered.

“Hey, it _worked_ ,” Cornelia fired back.

“Girls,” Belle said reprovingly. “But seriously – what do you think, Vivianne?”

Vivianne shook her head. “I’ll go to class.” She tossed her hair back. “We should probably get going anyway.”

“Not yet, Vivianne,” Belle said, gently – but no determinedly – keeping Vivianne in her seat. “We have a few minutes. You can take your time.”

Vivianne shot her a wan smile before glancing around. “Thanks – all of you, by the way.”

And Cornelia, of all people, was the one to smile and shrug. “We’re your friends, Vivianne. What else are we supposed to do?”


	36. Chapter 35: Que Sera, Sera

**Chapter 35: Que Sera, Sera**

“Honestly, Chandler, it’s not _fair_! Detention with Professor Lipskit until the Christmas holiday?” Dara whined. “I’ve heard he might actually be worse than that Umbridge lady who was here when Potter was here.”

“I don’t know. My cousin was here when Umbridge was here; he told me about that pen.” It was maybe the first time that Zach had ever heard Chandler do anything other than wholeheartedly agree with Dara.

“Yeah, and they say the Weasleys released a swamp here too.” Dara rolled her eyes.

“But, Dara, there is a swamp. It’s by Professor Lipskit’s office.” Chandler grimaced as if not wanting to get in any further trouble by arguing with Dara.

"Yes, but do you _really_ think that the Weasley twins created it right before they dropped out of school? Everything is either ‘the Weasley twins did this’ or ‘Harry Potter did that.’”

“Um …” Chandler muttered intelligently.

“What I’m saying is, things get _exaggerated_.” Dara’s tone sharpened as a small knot of students came around the corner. “Especially by people who want attention. Like pretending to pass out just because they want out of a cupboard they shut _themselves_ in. I bet asthma isn’t even really a thing. _I’ve_ never heard of it or heard of anyone with it.”

With that, Zach knew that Miri had to be in that group of students.

“Are you still whining, Dara?” Haley asked, putting an arm around Miri’s shoulders and steering her toward the Great Hall.

“If someone lied to get you in trouble, wouldn’t you still be upset about it?” Dara sneered.

“Whatever, Dara.”

“I bet Miranda doesn’t even have a brother. All that tripe about Henry this, Henry that, it’s probably just lies like the asthma thing: it gets her attention. It makes people forgive her bad grades and the fact that she doesn’t brush her hair every morning.” Dara’s hazel eyes sparked in the candlelight, looking almost a feral gold. Even Chandler was looking at her like she’d crossed some sort of invisible line, edging slightly away from her.

“What did you say?” Miri whispered.

“Henry is a lie. That’s what I said.”

Dara’s robes began to ripple and then strain. She seemed to be getting taller as well; it was only after Zach saw her socks against the shoulder of Penny’s robes that Zach realized she was floating.

“Merlin’s bloomers, Zach, grab her!” Juliette yelled as they pushed their way forward in the crowd of younger students who were looking at Dara in shocked awe – and for a few students, it might have been noted, delight. Zach made a grab for the first-year’s ankle, only to have her jerked out of his grasp. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who was responsible for that, not with the cackling _hee-hee-hee_ accompanying it and the sound of bells, like on a particularly obnoxious hat.

“Peeves, put that student down!” Zach called.

“Don’t!” Miri’s voice cracked, and in fact she brandished her wand, a swishy length of larch, and cried out, “ _Wingardium Leviosa_!”

Peeves crowed and batted Dara across the room like a beach ball.

“Get me down!” Dara wailed.

“What’s going on here?” Professor Zanetti called, cutting through the din.

“She blew Dara up like a beach ball!” Chandler pointed an accusatory finger at Miri.

“She said my brother was a lie, Professor!” Miri’s voice was so crazed and cracked, and even the look of terrified horror on Dara’s face couldn’t make Zach feel entirely sorry for the floating firstie. “That I made him up, made him—him—him.” She stopped in the middle of the sentence, sobbing as Peeves grabbed ahold of Dara’s ankle and dragged her along, singing “Que Sera, Sera” as he did a one-handed backstroke through the air.

“Oh, Merlin.” The blonde professor put a hand on Miri’s shaking shoulders. “Peeves, if you don’t bring me that student, right now, I’ll go get Lipskit.”

“Awww. Boo.” The poltergeist pouted, but dragged Dara down to where Zanetti could reach her. Grabbing the first-year’s hand, she guided both of the girls from the hall toward the infirmary. “Zach, could you go get Professor Sprout?”

“Sure,” Zach said as he turned to head toward her office.

“It honestly couldn’t have happened to a nicer girl,” Juliette muttered just before he got out of earshot. “All right, people, c’mon, move along. This is Hogwarts; six impossible things happen before breakfast.”

* * *

Rowan took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes. Hours of scanning tiny, closely-written print in the library were starting to take their toll. _How long until Christmas?_

She told herself it made sense to be the one taking point on researching ways to help Blair. Jon’s class load made it practically impossible for him to take on extra studying or research; Blair and Aubrey were both too busy with NEWTs; and Quill didn’t have the patience for this kind of research. And while Candice was willing to help, that had been vetoed by everyone because she needed to concentrate on her OWLs.

Rowan was starting to regret that veto.

But how much help would even Candice be? Candice didn’t think wizard.

Rowan knew that Blair could not be the first person born a witch to really be a wizard or vice versa. It just didn’t make sense. There had to have been others – and there had to be some way to deal with this. As Aubrey had pointed out, you could use a potion to change yourself into another person, and some witches and wizards could transfigure themselves into entirely different species. Blair was one of them! Altering genitalia and secondary sex characteristics ought to be child’s play in comparison.

But the difficulty with that hypothesis was finding the data to prove it. Aubrey, Blair, Jon – they’d never heard the word trans before until Rowan had said it, so witches and wizards had to have a different name for the phenomenon. The question was, what was it?

There wasn’t even anyone Rowan could ask …

So she dove into the stacks, looking up appearance-altering spells and potions (which were all temporary) and advanced Transfiguration and even treatises on Metamorphmagi. None were particularly helpful. Nothing even hinted at the kind of information Rowan was seeking.

She wasn’t looking for a needle in a haystack. She was looking for a needle in a shopping district somewhere abroad. She knew she had to find a fabric store – she just didn’t know where it was. And she had a feeling that nobody spoke English, so she couldn’t even ask anyone.

Rubbing her eyes again, Rowan glanced at her watch. She had not quite ten minutes before she was going to meet Zach and Spencer and teach them a few resuscitation spells she knew – in case that little brat Dara tried something else on Miri. Now that Miri had turned Dara into a floating beach ball in front of half the school, Rowan figured that they would need those spells more than they had before.

After all, Frida and Trish would have never let something like that rest.

She might as well pack up now. Her brain was hurting. So Rowan piled up the books, organized her notes, put the latter into her bag, and—

_… Huh …_

The _Historie_ …

Rowan bit her lip and, guiltily, looked around. No one was watching her.

She dragged the book out of her bag and set it on the table. It certainly didn’t look like much. Leather-bound and old but still in good condition, it didn’t even have a title – just a strange sigil on the cover.

Frowning, wondering, Rowan slowly opened up the book.

She’d flipped through it as often as she dared since coming back from her grandmother’s funeral. She’d looked up the Lincolnshire Compact; she’d read the account of the Gorloises in the First and Second Wizarding Wars. (Both war entries had been written in the same hand that had written the letter that came with the book. Rowan had decided that she wasn’t going to think about that too much.) She’d even tried to read the account of Morgan’s life, but that was all in ancient runes and Rowan hadn’t been able to get the translation spell to work before she was interrupted.

There was, she knew, a magical table of contents. It was the only way to get anywhere in the book. Just opening up to a page at random showed a blank page.

So she could … perhaps …

If any family was likely to have someone whose sex was a little bit more complicated than “male” or “female” – surely it would be the Gorloises?

Surely they would have written about it?

But how?

Rowan frowned and whispered the first phrase that came to her head. “Gorlois w-wizard.”

The page seemed to shift under her eyes …

One entry appeared. The name was entirely in runes.

Hand fumbling, Rowan tapped the book with her wand and murmured, “ _Interpretio_.”

Below the runes appeared the name of the article: “The Life of Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall.”

“M-Merlin’s bloody b-bathrobe,” Rowan muttered. She rested her hand on her cheek and frowned at the book.

She was running into the same problem here that she had run into in the stacks. She didn’t have the right words.

Closing her eyes, she tried to think of another way to phrase the question. “Gorlois w-witch who used to b-be a w-wizard.”

The article on Gorlois of Cornwall vanished. And for a moment, there was nothing.

Then the page began to shimmer again.

A title appeared in runes. Rowan quickly translated it.

“The Life of Elaine Laudine Gorlois, born Elyan Caesar Lestrange, written by herself.”

_Jackpot!_

“Rowan?”

Rowan jumped and almost yelped, slamming the book shut.

Zach and Spencer jumped back.

_Oh … Merlin._

“H-h-hi,” Rowan said, slipping the _Historie_ into her bag and trying to smile. “S-s-sorry—I g-got s-startled.”

“We could see that,” Spencer replied, eyes narrowed.

“Everything all right, Rowan?” asked Zach, not even bothering to hide the faint worry.

“Oh, y-y-yeah.” Rowan flashed a smile at the pair of them and hoped it looked genuine. “J-just concentrating – and I m-m-must have l-l-lost track of t-time – s-s-so – l-l-let me …”

“We can help,” Spencer said, moving toward the books. “Are you checking any of these out?”

Rowan shook her head. And before she could blink, Spencer had grabbed one pile and Zach the other, leaving Rowan nothing …

Well, nothing but her always-full bag to carry, which was generally plenty.

“Th-thanks,” Rowan replied. “So um—you have a s-s-study room?”

“Yeah, we found one that’s empty,” Zach said.

“All r-r-right.” They went toward the door, stopping only to drop the books off on the carts for re-shelving. “S-s-so—we p-practiced on a d-dummy at St. M-M-Mungo’s—but it’s n-n-not a h-hard s-spell …”

They left the library still chatting, Rowan trying to focus her mind on the task at hand – and above all, trying not to concentrate too much on what she had just found.

Not until she was sure that whatever she had found would actually do her some good.

* * *

“You’re even sure the little girl will see it?” Booker asked, nervously scuffing at some snow.

“I asked Zach, and he said she’d be coming back from detention,” Ben told him.

“And how much trouble do you think this will land us in?” Cameron stretched and peered around the pillar that was providing them with shelter from the wind that cut through even the best warming spells.

“I’m hoping not much because there’s nothing to clean up—nothing in this that’s against the rules—and I’m pretty sure that a Disney lawyer isn’t going to pop out of nowhere with litigation for it.” Ben gave a half smile. “But only pretty sure.”

Ringo threw his head back and laughed.

“There’s Hagrid,” Kenny said, morphing back into human form. “I hope you know I’m freezing my fluffy tail off here—and I’m a bloody snowshoe hare in my Animagus form.”

“Don’t worry, Ken, you have plenty of fluffy tail left.” Ben smirked at the shorter boy who just pulled his orange parka a little closer to himself. “So the kid is with him?”

“Either that or he’s charmed a supersized ball of yarn with legs and mittens to walk, which isn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility.”

“All right, show time.”

_“You said you’d always be with me, but you’re not.”_

The voice rang out just as Hagrid and his ball of yarn crested into the courtyard – but by the way the smaller figure froze for a moment and looked around, Ben was guessing it was actually the kid.

It seemed like a simple thing to do. All it really was was moving lights. A giant connect-the-dots in the sky. The spells weren’t hard, but the timing was precise. His spells had to line up exactly with Kenny’s and Ringo’s, and their spells had to match up exactly with the music.

A challenge, to be sure, but what was life without a few challenges?

As Ben was thinking about it, in the back corner of his mind, a young Simba was pouncing Mufasa in the sky. Hagrid paused and looked up too. The light had attracted other attention as well, students sticking their noses out into the cold and looking up, trying to decide if freezing was worth the light show.

If the group of students amassing despite the chill was as big as it seemed to be, he would guess it was.

_“The past can hurt. But the way I see it, you can either run from it—or learn from it.”_ Miranda’s laughter cut through even sound as Simba – now grown – took the stick from Rafiki. Then there was Cinderella dancing with her pillow and her bird-and-mice friends. In picking vignettes, they’d tried to pick places where it was friends, family, the people who cared about you who picked you back up and dusted you off. It was far more important to remember that, Ben thought, than that to think that a dick or a nice rack could save you from yourself.

With wisps of fog, almost seeming like some giant in an invisibility cloak was leaving breath in the sky, lines of pastel neon connecting stars brightened to hold the whole thing together, each vignette set itself up, playing out a scene like those sketchy animation tests you sometimes saw in the “Making of” this or that feature.

* * *

The night after Ben Moore and his friends lit up the sky with … whatever that was, Vivianne made her way to a study lounge where she had planned to meet Zach after dinner.

She should have realized that he was highly unlikely to be alone.

“I just …” Vivianne recognized the voice: Miri, the girl who had been the cause and focus of so much trouble, and who had, apparently, been worrying Zach since the beginning of the year.

Because some instincts died only slowly, or not at all, Vivianne stopped outside the door and listened.

“I just want her to leave me alone, Zach. I mean – what Ben and his friends did was really nice – but Dara isn’t going to stop just because of that.” A pause. “Or because I blew her up like a balloon.”

Vivianne put her hand in front of her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

“You should ask Professor Sprout to let you switch into the other dorm,” Zach counselled.

“… Do you think she’d let me? I mean, after …?” Miri’s voice was very small, even smaller than usual.

_Yes!_ thought Vivianne, because at this point, even Professor Yaxley would sign off on a move if a pair of Slytherin first-years were doing this – if only to save herself an infinite number of headaches.

“I really think she would, Miri,” Zach answered. “Think about it like this: you’re taking steps to solve the problem. Why wouldn’t she support that?”

“… But what if the problem doesn’t stop?”

Vivianne hesitated – but she knew how Zach would respond to this, didn’t she? He would say something eminently sensible, something that would follow all the rules. Something about bringing it up to a prefect or a teacher and letting them handle it.

The trouble was, as Vivianne suspected Miri already knew, prefects and teachers could only do so much.

So she chose that moment to waltz into the room, saying blithely as she did so, “Then you give her a hexing she won’t soon forget.”

As Miri and Zach jumped to see her, Vivianne smirked at the pair of them and slid into the chair next to Zach’s. “Hullo Zach,” she kissed his cheek, “Miri.”

Miri’s eyes were very wide, and Zach looked faintly reproving. “Vivianne.”

“What?” Vivianne asked, shrugging. “I’m sorry, but there are some people who don’t respond well to reason, discipline, or authority. They speak a simple language, and if you want to get through to them, you need to speak that language. In fact …” Vivianne mused. “Your Dora—”

“Dara,” Miri corrected.

Vivianne waved the correction off. “Whatever. Your Dara – she reminds me a bit of a girl in Slytherin in our year. Frida Rowle. Do you know her?”

Miri shook her head.

“Do yourself a favor, then, and keep it that way,” Vivianne replied. “She—”

Vivianne stopped.

It was obvious – based on the previous day’s light show – that Miri had some Muggle heritage, enough to understand what all of that was about. So Vivianne had thought to warn her that Frida’s father had been a Death Eater and that Frida herself seemed to have thoughts in her father’s mold. Except …

_“And then—then, when he gets a chance to get out in the big breakout of ‘96, with his Death Eater father and all his friends—he threw his lot in with the Dark Lord!”_

_“Oh, yes, a Snatcher. Hauling terrified Muggle-borns up in front of the Registration Commission. Hunting down the only people brave enough to say the Dar—_ Tom Riddle’s _name. No, Josie, he never did anything_ bad _at all.”_

Vivianne couldn’t go on.

“Vivianne?” Zach asked. He put a hand on her shoulder – barely any pressure – but it was enough to bring her back into the present.

A glance into Zach’s very blue and very concerned eyes also reminded Vivianne that she wasn’t quite sure when the last time she had breathed was.

So she did so – in a gasp that was a bit too sharp for her taste, but there wasn’t much she could do about that – and she shook her head. “Sor—sorry. Where was I?”

Zach bit his lip, and a sidelong glance at Miri proved her to be just as concerned. Vivianne swallowed – and remembered.

“Oh. Yes. Stay away from Frida.” Her voice, as she spoke, grew stronger, and by the time she got to the end of the sentence, Vivianne was able to flip her hair over her shoulder with something like nonchalance. “She has no fondness for people with Muggle heritage. And she knows some … powerful hexes …”

“She’s worse than Dara,” Zach added, without a hint of hesitation or even regret.

Miri’s eyes went wide.

“But as I was originally saying,” Vivianne went on, “there are some people – like Frida – and possibly your Dara – that do not respond to reason. That only understand power and force. If you have more of it than they do – they will leave you alone. If not …” Vivianne shrugged and spun her wand between her fingers.

Zach was scowling – but then, why shouldn’t he? Surely he remembered what Frida and Trish had done to Rowan last year. And now this Dara …

“So toss a few hexes her way – especially if they’re technically a bit too complicated for someone your age – and that might get the message across in a way a slew of detentions could not compete with.” Vivianne shrugged.

“ _Vivianne_.” Zach sighed.

“What?” Vivianne blinked at Zach in perfect innocence.

“You should not be offering to teach hexes to a first-year – especially not in front of a prefect.”

“Ah, but I’m not offering to teach her hexes in front of a prefect; I’m offering to teach her hexes in front of my _boyfriend_.”

“There’s a difference?” Zach asked.

“Isn’t there?” Vivianne replied. She rested her chin on her hand and batted her eyelashes at him. “After all, Zach, it’s not like you’d blow me in to a teacher … _would_ you?”

“I—” Zach began.

“And,” Vivianne continued, “you know Juliette would have already done it, if she could figure out a way around the whole ‘being a prefect’ thing.”

“… Probably, but—”

“Not to mention,” and here Vivianne turned a particularly melting gaze on him, “you know that this is the least bad option you have, right? I mean, if I don’t _teach_ Miss Miri a few hexes, chances are excellent that Sybilla is going to be the one _doing_ a few hexes – and we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

“Oh, Merlin,” Zach muttered, resting his head in his hands.

And Miri laughed.

Vivianne just winked at Miri, the wink of one female to another, the elder showing the younger how it was done – but Zach looked up.

His mouth opened.

His mouth shut again.

He smiled.

And Vivianne let the fluttering in her stomach slowly take over, to the point where she was almost surprised when Miri asked, “Would you? Really?”

Vivianne blinked – would she what? – but then she remembered. “Certainly, Miri.”

“… Maybe,” Miri said – she was picking at a loose thread on her skirt, not meeting Vivianne’s gaze – “maybe over the Christmas holiday? I mean … if you’re staying …”

“You’re staying, Miri?” Zach asked, the concerned look coming back.

Miri merely shrugged. “I don’t have much reason to go home. Besides, Dara will be gone, so I’ll get a holiday either way.”

She glanced at Vivianne. “So—would you? Maybe?”

Vivianne had her reply already set: a gracious refusal, predicated on the fact that she would hardly be staying at the school over Christmas, followed by an offer to start teaching her as soon as she got back, or even before they left.

Except …

_“I don’t have much reason to go home.”_

What reason did Vivianne have to go home? There was her mother – and perhaps the investigation – but …

She thought of the huge castle, echoing and empty, stuck there alone with Ettie while her mother went out with her friends or got plastered with Professor Yaxley …

Vivianne breathed in sharply enough that Zach shot a worried look at her.

She swallowed. “I—I haven’t decided whether I’m going home or not,” Vivianne replied, “but … if I do decide to stay, of course I’ll teach you. And if I don’t, we’ll find another time.”

Miri grinned. “Great. Thanks—thanks, Vivianne.”

Zach groaned. “What next?” he muttered to his hands. “Come to the dark side, we have cookies?”

Miri burst out laughing at that, and Vivianne decided – even if she didn’t understand why – that she would consent to being the butt of the joke just this once.

It felt good to hear that little girl laugh.


	37. Chapter 36: All Along the Watchtower

**Chapter 36: All Along the Watchtower**

Leo preferred to describe himself using terms like cautious, careful, aware, prepared … even CONSTANT VIGILANCE. (He’d met Moody a few times, Ministry affairs when he and Shantia were still married, but the man – as _eccentric_ as he was – didn’t lack for points on the vigilance front.) Paranoid, well, that just seemed harsh.

But all the same, the – well – paranoid often lived to be paranoid the next day.

Explaining what he felt when they entered the ruins would be like trying to explain why molasses was sticky. You probably could do it, there was probably some scientific explanation about viscosity and water content and what not, but what was the point? Most people wouldn’t care _why_ it was sticky, just that it was. And considered a weapon in the hands of Hagrid.

There was something, though. A scent, an odd feeling of heaviness in the air, a bit of ill omen whispered in the bare-leafed trees. But when you worked with predators – or teenagers for that matter, the two weren’t that dissimilar – you didn’t show fear or weakness. Lipskit stuffed his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, which Dragon used as an opportunity to climb out of his pocket and up the sleeve before settling into the warm patch under the collar, next to Lipskit’s ear.

He had tried at least a dozen times to set the Knarl, now healed, free. And by the time he went to his office the next day, inevitably the Knarl would be curled up on his blotter, looking up at Leo when he opened the door, swarming over Leo when he sat down.

As much as the Knarl should be a wild animal, not a pet – well, it would take a harder heart than Leo’s to disabuse the little creature of returning.

Besides, Bellerose _hated_ Dragon, and that was reason enough to keep the Knarl around, wasn’t it? He grimaced when he saw Dragon’s nose poking out of Lipskit’s coat, distracting him, briefly, from the look of … hunger, maybe, he was giving the ruins. Whatever the expression was, it was gone when Zanetti tapped the researcher on the shoulder and murmured something at him, probably whatever excuse the she’d come up with for keeping Bellerose from O’Blake this week.

Speaking of O’Blake, Lipskit swung his eyes over to where she was with Moore, Moore being easy to spot as always – even without the backward facing cap sporting some team logo and the pair of fuzzy earmuffs in bright taillight red, but those certainly didn’t hurt when it came to picking him out of the crowd.

A ghost of a smile had almost crossed Lipskit’s face when the brush not far from the two students crackled, and something Lipskit had never seen before appeared in the center of them.

It looked a bit like a tiger, shifting plates of swamp rock mimicking stripes, underneath that an ever-shifting form of what looked like mud forced into shape. The eyes resembled a fire bent and twisted into orbs.

A breathless moment seemed to catch the entire contents of the courtyard. Then Dragon keened in fear; this was what had attacked him, Leo knew it as if the Knarl himself had spoken. That broke stasis.

Three things happened all at once. Leo charged toward the whatever-it-was; Kilduff swept Dragon off Leo’s shoulder as he passed; Moore grabbed O’Blake by the shoulders and tipped them off the short pair of steps they were on.

They stumbled straight into one of the stone panels on the side of the ruins – which spun like the secret doors in the castle, dumping the kids out of sight and hopefully into something like safety.

The creature saw its prey gone – and Lipskit coming for it – and disappeared back into the brush. But it wasn’t getting away that easy.

* * *

Ben grunted as Rowan spilled straight onto his stomach, trying to break her fall with an elbow, he guessed, but really just knocking the wind out of him with it. And then to add insult – more or less – to injury, her hand was like half an inch away from something pretty interesting, and that would be all he’d need after the ruins decided to go all Scooby Doo on him.

Rowan didn’t seem to notice – he was pretty sure she’d be blushing a lot harder if she’d noticed – she was blushing, yes, but that was probably more because she’d fallen on top of him. He gave a helpful cough after giving her a minute; lying on the marble floor, feeling it leech the heat from his body, wasn’t helping get his breath back.

“S-s-s-sorry!” She scrambled to her feet.

“No—problem. Hey, you hurt a lot less than that muddy tiger thing would-a; didja see the claws on it?” Ben said, his breath coming back to him.

“W-w-where are w-we?” Rowan asked.

“I do not know?” Ben told her, looking around the corridor that, weirdly, was lit with a lamp right over their head – but he was pretty sure that none of the Ministry lamps had purple flames. Green sometimes, but never purple. _Hmmm._

It was actually fairly clear, no evidence of enterprising groups of spiders or anything. The marble was smooth and cool – but near featureless.

“That looks like a wall.” Ben gestured at the one end of the hall. “Let’s see what’s this way?”

“W-why w-would the r-ruins have a h-h-hallway that l-leads—um—n-n-nowhere?”

“Tornado shelter?” Ben offered.

“Ha-ha-ha, Ben. I d-d-don’t really think w-w-wizards in the S-Scottish highlands had to w-worry a l-lot about t-t-tornados.” Rowan adjusted her glasses and dusted at the knees of her blue leggings.

“Nessa made that mistake.” Ben smirked.

“...W-who?”

“Nessarose,” Ben offered, “She didn’t pay attention to tornados and ended up dead.”

“K-Kansas wasn’t even d-d-discovered yet, n-n-not when these r-ruins w-w-were occupied.” Rowan shook her head. Of course she’d get the _Wicked_ reference if he gave her enough of it.

“Except by the Native Americans who lived there since the days of the ice bridge between Alaska and Russia,” Ben pointed out. “And if you make jokes about flying teepees not being able to kill you, I’ll stop speaking to you.”

“D-d-did I m-miss s-s-something?”

“Eleven years of injun jokes.”

They both looked up as a lamp lit itself over their heads and the one where they’d come into the hall went out. Rowan shivered in a way that Ben would have bet money had nothing to do with being cold.

“I w-w-want out of h-h-here, B-B-Ben,” Rowan told him.

“I know, sweetheart, but there seems to be something up there—doesn’t there?” Ben asked.

Rowan peered into the darkness. “I’m—n-n-not s-s-seeing anything,” she admitted.

The hallway led to another wall. Ben grimaced and leaned his elbow on the wall—which turned and tipped the two of them – in a _slightly_ more dignified manner – into the _foyer_?

“Oh, thank Merlin!” Professor Kilduff exclaimed, handing Lipskit’s Knarl off to Professor Zanetti and rushing over to them. She brushed them off with one of the archaeology hand brooms, straightening cloaks and smoothing hair. “You’re all right?”

“Fine, Professor. Getting the wind knocked out of me in the fall was the worst of it,” Ben said as Rowan nodded enthusiastically.

“As you missed the announcement,” Professor Zanetti quirked an eyebrow at them, “you’ll be working, here, in the foyer with Professor Kilduff’s group. Call me paranoid, but I think it’s far better for us all, if we’re—a bit less spread out today.”

“We’re working on this panel here,” Professor Kilduff said with a smile that was a little shaky on the edges. “I’m sure you can help Spencer with this Arthimancy, Ben—and um, well, I’m sure that Zach will be glad to find you a place over with him and Vivianne.”

Ben looked at Rowan, who looked back up with a smile even shakier than the professor’s.

* * *

“L-l-let’s g-go then,” Rowan said, shrugging at Ben and trying to smile. It was either that or be forced to – well – think about things. Like that not-a-tiger that had jumped out of the bushes, or the fact that the ruins apparently had several sets of trick walls that were really doors, or the fact that today she’d apparently be working with Vivianne and Sybilla after nearly being mauled by that not-a-tiger.

At least Zach would be there. And Ben wouldn’t be far.

Ben walked off to join Spencer, apparently working on a difficult Arithmancy problem, and Rowan went to where Sybilla, Vivianne, and Zach were working.

Zach was cleaning a panel, while Sybilla and Vivianne were on another panel, making rubbings of the runes on it. Zach shot her a quick smile. “Are you and Ben all right?”

Rowan nodded. “Yeah. B-B-Ben – has g-g-good instincts.” She glanced over her shoulder and smiled at Ben.

Ben seemed to sense her looking. He turned and waggled his eyebrows. Rowan giggled.

She turned back to Zach, seeing Vivianne glancing in her direction and rolling her eyes. But Sybilla – nudged her? “It’s young love, Vivianne.”

“But it’s more fun to be arch and superior, Sybilla,” Vivianne replied. “You of all people should know that.”

Rowan’s gaze went back to Zach, finding him watching his girlfriend with a half-exasperated, half-amused expression. He caught her eye and shrugged.

Rowan shrugged back, grabbed one of the cleaning brushes, and decided she’d concentrate on her work. It would keep Vivianne from making too many comments, even if …

Well, even if the comments weren’t nearly as bad as she was expecting.

It would also keep Sybilla from feeling the impulse to defend her, which was quite possibly more frightening than the not-a-tiger thing.

That not-a-tiger …

“Z-Zach?” she murmured.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Why—w-why are w-we s-s-still h-h-here?” Rowan asked. “Shouldn’t—w-w-wouldn’t it m-m-make m-m-more s-s-sense to l-leave?”

Sybilla answered. “Actually, the professors are of the opinion it’s safer to stay here. Less chance of one of getting eaten, I suppose, in case that … thing has friends.”

“It looked like a tiger,” Vivianne replied. “Tigers are solitary hunters.”

Rowan blinked, and even Zach looked a little surprised. “What?” Vivianne asked, shrugging. “I like tigers.”

Rowan decided she wouldn’t ask. Although that her cousin liked tigers …

Actually, it made quite a bit of sense. Maybe it was the fact that the tiger was a Muggle animal that threw her off the scent. But if Vivianne was going to like a Muggle animal, it would be a tiger.

Rowan turned back to the panel she was cleaning – but not for long. She glanced around. She’d never had a chance to really see the foyer before, at least not this part of it. They were standing in a small alcove tucked near what looked like a doorway covered in runes. The alcove was furnished with a couple of benches, a table, a cupboard with glasses and plates still inside of it. Even on this cold, gray day, it was suffused with light let in through a clever skylight.

It was … a waiting area? Maybe. Whatever it was, it was very pretty, and that was after fifteen hundred years in the Forbidden Forest with nobody but ivy and spiders for company.

Although the more Rowan thought about it, the more she realized how little damage the wildlife had done to this place …

She shook her head – and stopped.

That bench …

There were all kinds of runes covering the seat (it looked very uncomfortable), but the one that caught Rowan’s eye was the one in the middle. It wasn’t just a rune; it was a sigil of some kind. And it looked familiar. She’d seen it before – but where?

_“Come with me,” Aunt Nell told her, leading her into the library. They walked past the stacks of books, the endless rolls of parchment, until they reached a panel marked with a sigil. Aunt Nell began to recite a nursery rhyme, and the sigil started to glow an eerie purple-black color._

_The sigil._

_THAT sigil!_

Rowan gasped and dropped her brush.

* * *

Vivianne heard the clatter. Her hand was already going for her wand as she turned.

But there was no mud-tiger. No sign of Professor Lipskit doing battle with a beast. No sign of Monsieur Bellerose, either.

All Vivianne saw was Rowan staring at one of the benches, looking as if she’d seen a dementor.

Vivianne raised an eyebrow at Sybilla. Sybilla raised an eyebrow at Vivianne.

“Rowan?” Zach asked. “Everything all right?”

“That s-s-sigil,” she stammered, her eyes not leaving the bench.

“The sig—” Vivianne started. Then her eyes went to the same sigil that had stuck in her head for weeks – the one she _knew_ but she could never place, the one not even her grandmother had been able to help her with.

“ _That_ sigil?” Vivianne asked, pointing. Zach followed her gaze and his eyes went wide.

Sybilla took her wand out of her pocket and waved it. “What?” she asked when Zach turned to her with a raised eyebrow. “This is getting interesting. We can’t have just anyone overhearing it.”

She said that rather loudly – loudly enough that, while Professor Kilduff, stuck babysitting Mr. Langley, didn’t seem to notice, Spencer perked up. Ben looked up as well.

The two boys looked at each other, and gathering parchments and quills, came closer. Not so close that it was obvious they were slacking off and listening, but close enough to do so.

Vivianne would have glared at Sybilla, but she felt it was wiser not to take her eyes off Rowan.

Rowan had swallowed, still staring at the sigil. “It’s—it’s in C-C-Caer T-Tintagel,” she said. “And it’s on—” Her eyes went wide and she slapped her hands over her mouth.

Too late. Vivianne remembered.

_“Come with me, Vivianne—I have a secret to show you.” Vivianne, five, maybe six, holding tightly to her grandmother’s hand as they walked into the library. Deep into the library – past the children’s books, past the novels and the storybooks, past the books of household spells and healing spells and general all-purpose spells, past even Grandmother’s history books, deep into the books of old spells that Grandmother said she was never to touch, not until she was much older._

_They stood in front of a panel marked with an odd sigil and some runes, and Grandmother spoke a nursery rhyme, a rhyme Vivianne knew by heart. She chimed in at the end, and Grandmother smiled at her._

_The sigil and the runes glowed a purple-black color that made Vivianne squint and shield her eyes with her free hand—_

_The door disappeared, revealing a tiny room with a book on a stand._

_A book marked with the same sigil that had been on the panel._

Vivianne’s head whipped to stare at the sigil on the bench. Even now – upside-down, as she had first seen it—

But now she recognized it.

Her heart started to pound.

“How do you know that sigil?” Vivianne demanded, turning back to Rowan. “ _Where_ did you see it? It’s not—it’s not—”

Vivianne squeezed her eyes shut and held her hand to her head. Where was it in the castle? The library, of course – the room that had once been the Great Hall – it marked the door of the matriarch’s bedroom – but where else?

Lots of places. Secret places. In family vault, marking the crypt of every matriarch. On several doors in the dungeons, marking secured laboratories and experimentation chambers (and the occasional innocent storage room, just to throw anyone snooping off the scent). On the door that led to a secret passage under the causeway and to the mainland, one last place of escape in case the castle was ever overrun or conquered—

How many of those places would Rowan, could Rowan have seen?

Vivianne glared. Rowan took a step back.

“Vivianne,” Zach said reprovingly. Vivianne didn’t listen.

“Where did you see that sigil?” she repeated.

“In th-the l-library! It’s—r-r-right on the p-p-panel—p-plain as d-d-day—even b-b-before you s-s-say the—” Rowan stopped, slapping her hand over her mouth again.

Vivianne stared. She couldn’t even blink. “The rhyme,” she finished. “Before you say the rhyme.”

Rowan didn’t answer. Her eyes looked wider than normal – magnified behind her glasses.

“Everythin’ all right over there?” asked Ben, but Vivianne ignored him. So, for that matter, did Rowan.

Green eyes finally met mismatched, and battle was joined.

Rowan didn’t surrender at the first clash of swords, and that alone was surprising – but Vivianne wasn’t giving up that easily. She turned the full force of the Gorlois glare and the Gorlois pride and the Gorlois determination on her little cousin, who ...

… did not give up and run away. Rowan gulped, but after a deep breath she tossed her head back and clenched her fists at her sides and matched Vivianne glare for glare.

All the same, she gave first ground. “The r-r-rhyme.”

“Who,” Vivianne demanded, “no— _why_ —would anyone say the rhyme in front of—”

“It was Aunt N-N-Nell!” Rowan tossed back. “Jacob—Jacob Pritchard’s m-m-mum!”

The rank incongruity of a Gorlois woman being referred to as someone’s mother would have galled Vivianne, except for the fact that she knew exactly who Aunt Nell was – the Gorlois family had its share of Aunt Ragnells, but there was only one Aunt Nell – and Vivianne’s stomach was plunging.

“Aunt Nell,” she repeated. “ _Why_ did Aunt Nell lead you to—were you following her? Did you—?”

“No!” Rowan tossed back, not even stammering. That was a shock. “I wasn’t— _Merlin_ , Vivianne, why the hell would I?” Her eyes narrowed and the hands clenched. “She showed me because—because your grandmother—because the b-b-book—”

Vivianne stared.

_… No._

She didn’t realize how she looked at first, face chalk-white and hands shaking. She barely took note how Sybilla asked, “Vivianne?” or even of Zach’s hand on her shoulder.

It wasn’t until the anger – yes – anger on Rowan’s face melted away and she turned her head a little to one side, like a puzzled bird, concern growing, that Vivianne had any sense of how she might look.

She swallowed and tried to grab a wisp of thought, a thread of argument. “The … book.”

Rowan nodded.

“Grandmother couldn’t have … she _wouldn’t_ have …”

Rowan shrugged.

“… She left it to you?” Vivianne asked. It was barely louder than a whisper.

Rowan nodded again.

“Why?” It wasn’t an angry question. Not a challenging one. It was small and plaintive and, yes, weak.

For the first time since battle started, Rowan’s eyes dropped. A faint blush spread over her cheeks, and she rubbed the back of her neck with her hand. “I—um—she l-l-left a n-n-note with it. You c-c-can s-s-see it, if you l-l-like.”

That wasn’t an answer. That wasn’t even close to an answer. But before Vivianne could ask for a better one, another voice cut into their conversation.

“Girls? Boys? Is everything all right?”

Vivianne looked up. Professor Kilduff stood just outside their circle, Langley not far behind. He looked exasperated, she concerned.

Sybilla quickly waved her wand and answered. “Everything’s fine, Professor. Come on,” she tugged Vivianne’s sleeve, “let’s get back to work.”

Vivianne felt Zach’s concern on one side, Sybilla’s forethought, even Professor Kilduff’s concern and Rowan’s. None of it really got through. But she nodded at Sybilla. “Yes. Let’s get back to work.”

Zach slowly took his hand off her shoulder and went back to the panel he and Rowan had been working on. Professor Kilduff watched them for a few more minutes before walking off with Langley.

Once they were out of earshot, Rowan turned to Vivianne. “I’ll g-g-get you that n-n-note.”

Vivianne nodded.

That was the last she said to anyone all class. She made the rubbings she’d been assigned, but they were dull, mechanical. She might have even done the same rune three times over without noticing. She didn’t care.

Vivianne stayed quiet even when Professor Lipskit stumped into the foyer, twigs and burrs sticking all over his robes and wearing the kind of scowl that generally made first years run for cover. He didn’t even perk up when Professor Kilduff handed his Knarl back to him, though if Vivianne cared to inspect that thought in more detail, she would realize that there was practically no logical reason why he would.

Vivianne didn’t even say anything on the way back to the castle, Sybilla walking on one side of her and Zach just ahead, though he kept looking back at her, frowning.

She didn’t speak until their entire party – teachers, students, Ministry employees and all – broke the cover of the trees and came closer to the castle.

“So,” Sybilla asked, “what was that sigil, anyways?”

“What?” Vivianne asked.

“The one that caused all this bother. The one Rowan recognized.”

If Vivianne’s thoughts had been on the present time and place, if she’d been paying more attention to her surroundings, she never would have said what she said next. At the very least she would have checked around to see who was in earshot before she did.

But they weren’t. And she didn’t.

All she did was shrug and reply, “It’s Morgan’s sigil. Morgan le Fay.”

And when Sybilla didn’t reply, her mind went back where it had been ever since Rowan had said what she said about the book.

_Grandmother, how could you have left it to her?_

_And why, why didn’t you tell me?_


	38. Chapter 37: Tyger Tyger

**Chapter 37: Tyger Tyger**

Rowan was as good as her word. Before dinner was over, Vivianne had the letter – hastily handed to her at the Slytherin table, Rowan eying Trish and Frida askance and stammering something about “n-n-notes from c-c-class” before dashing off. Trish, Frida, and even Cornelia had a fun time with that, stammering their way through dinner in imitation of the hapless half-blood.

Vivianne ignored them and did her best to look unconcerned as soon as Rowan was gone. She forced herself to eat a decent amount, laugh with Belle, roll her eyes at Isolde.

As soon as they were dismissed back to their common rooms and study lounges, Vivianne made certain to lose her friends. She Summoned her cloak, pulled the hood over her head, and went the one place where she could read the letter without being disturbed.

Outside.

The snow crunched underfoot as she left the courtyard, wind whipping around her and trying to get a look up her skirt. Vivianne didn’t even shiver. She made her way toward the lake, where there was a bench.

Vivianne blasted the snow away and sat, muttering a Warming Charm.

She took the carefully folded letter out of her pocket, lit her wand, and began to read.

_August 31, 2004_

_Rowan Igraine,_

_If you are reading this letter, I must have never had the chance to have this conversation with you in person. For that, I apologize. I suppose, at the end of things, I always assumed I would have more time._

_I write this letter because it is my wish to present you with a great gift and a grave responsibility. The gift is a book: the Historie of the Gorlois Familie. It is a chronicle of Clan Gorlois from the date of its founding to the present. The responsibility, in a way, is also the book. By accepting the book, you also accept responsibility as its Keeper. You gain access to the trove of knowledge the book contains – fifteen hundred years of trials, tribulations, and triumphs. But you also accept the responsibility to use that knowledge wisely, to aid the matriarch of the clan when she seeks your advice, to continue the chronicle through your days, and to pass the book along to a fitting Keeper when you are gone._

_This is a heady task. I know because I have borne it since I was only a couple of years past my school days – not as young as you are now, as I write this, but young enough. Yet I have always found it to be rewarding. From what I am given to know of your personality, I believe that you, too, will find it rewarding._

_You may be wondering why I have chosen you for this task, especially given your rather precarious – indeed unprecedented – position in the clan. The simple answer is that there is no one else who is suited for it. Do not misunderstand me: the Gorlois clan is full of intelligent, capable women. Many of them have studied wizarding history in some depth. To be Keeper of the Book, however, requires more than simply intelligence or capability. It requires wisdom, a willingness to listen to the lessons of the past, and above all, a mind capable of understanding not just who, what, where, and when, but also why._

_Anyone can slavishly imitate the actions of the past. Anyone can claim allegiance to ideas that witches have espoused for centuries. To be a Keeper of the Book, you must understand, or be willing to learn, the reasons why those actions were taken or those ideas were espoused. A Keeper of the Book must also possess the judgment to change course if those reasons no longer hold true or do not apply to the present day._

_Among the Gorlois women, judgment of that kind is in short supply._

_You may wonder whether you have that wisdom or that judgment now. Perhaps you do not. But you will. I am certain of it. And of those few Gorlois women who have or are likely to have that wisdom in the future, you are the best situated, by reason of your descent, your age, and your close (blood) relationship to your cousin Vivianne Morgaine, to take up this position. Hence, I leave it to you._

_As for the book itself, it has many secrets that will, in time, reveal themselves to you. I do not wish to do go into detail here, for fear that this letter may fall into the wrong hands. Should you require assistance with the book, apply to Ragnell Morgause, Dindrane Rowena, or my sister Enid Claire. You may also apply to Laurelle Honour, but I would suggest doing that as a last resort only. Any of these women will do their best to answer your questions. You may also apply to your mother, but I cannot be certain how much she remembers of what I taught her about the book._

_In closing, believe me when I say that I wish you the best, and I have no doubt that you will rise to the challenge ahead. In some ways, you remind me of myself when I was your age. You have curiosity and a careful, methodical way of thinking. Cherish both of these qualities – they will see you through many of the challenges that life will bring to you._

_With sincerest best wishes and no small measure of fondness, I remain,_

_Your grandmother,_

_Igraine Vivianne Gorlois_

Vivianne didn’t even realize that she had started to cry until a tear fell on her grandmother’s signature.

Swearing, she pointed her wand – it was shaking – at the letter and muttered a Drought Charm. Vivianne forced herself to fold the letter and put it back into her pocket. Then she leaned forward and took one deep breath, then another, then another.

_A Keeper of the Book must also possess the judgment to change course if those reasons no longer hold true or do not apply to the present day …_

_Believe me when I say that I wish you the best …_

_In some ways, you remind me of myself when I was your age …_

Vivianne heard her breath hitch.

_Grandmother, why? Why did you leave it to her?_

_And why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me—_

_Crunch._

Vivianne blinked and looked up.

_Crunch._

She stood and pointed her wand around, shining it like a torch back and forth. “Who’s there?” she demanded. “Let me tell you, unless you are a teacher or a prefect, I am not in the mood for—”

The light from her wand reflected on—something. Something like Canyon’s eyes when the candlelight hit them. Except—

A roar echoed across the grounds, the mud-tiger leapt into the circle of wand-light, and Vivianne screamed.

She held up her arm—not her wand arm—to protect her face and screamed again when razor-sharp teeth sunk into it.

“ _PROTEGO_!” Vivianne found the wherewithal to shout. The mud-tiger growled, shuddering in what looked like pain. It shook itself and Vivianne screamed, but it didn’t let go.

It started to drag her—

_No!_ “ _FLIPENDO_!”

The mud-tiger was pushed back, and Vivianne screamed again—but it let go.

Vivianne rolled onto her stomach, her bad arm trapped under her body and sending out shockwaves of pain. But she didn’t have time for that. Vivianne shook her hair out of her face and stared at the mud-tiger.

The monster had climbed to its feet and was shaking itself. Globules of mud fell from its coat and sprinkled on the snow. Then, slowly, it turned to Vivianne with a low growl.

For a minute their eyes met. For a minute Vivianne thought she saw—

Whatever she thought she saw disappeared when the monster crouched low, haunches in the air.

Vivianne hadn’t the breath to cry out – too shocked to scream – but she could slash her wand, and she could think with all of her might, _Sectumsempra!_

The mud-tiger howled in what sounded like pain as long slashes appeared across its chest. Vivianne forced her way to her feet and tried to back away.

The monster roared again, seeing Vivianne, and leapt—and Vivianne jabbed her wand and thought as hard as she could, _FLIPENDO!_

The monster was pushed back, falling onto the snow, the mud oozing from its side mixing with Vivianne’s blood in a stomach-churning brew.

She couldn’t give up the initiative. “ _Furnunculus_!” she shouted, finally, having the breath to do so.

The mud-tiger’s skin bubbled in small, boil-like protrusions, but it barely seemed to notice.

_Shit!_ “ _Stupefy_!”

A jet of red light shot from her wand, hit the monster square in the chest, and—

Nothing happened.

The mud-tiger turned furious, flaming eyes at her, and once again Vivianne thought she saw something—something intelligent in there. This thing wasn’t like Canyon hunting down a mouse, focused and determined. There was something—something _angry_ behind those eyes—

_Sectumsempra!_ Vivianne thought again, and used the moment while the monster screamed in agony to send out her own shout. “HELP!” She shot a flare of sparks out of her wand. “Somebody HELP!”

The mud-tiger yelped and jumped back when it saw the sparks. But all too soon it was crouching again.

_Sectumsempra!_ Then, before the monster could recover, “ _Incendio_!”

A line of fire shot from Vivianne’s wand and lit up the snow, creating a barrier between her and the monster.

The mud-tiger reared back and roared in what sounded like fear.

_HA! Sectumsempra!_

More roars of agony from the monster.

“ _Incendio_!” The line of fire became a semicircle around the mud-tiger between Vivianne and it. The mud-tiger jumped back.

_Sectumsempra!_ “ _Incendio_!”

The flames surrounded the monster on three sides—the monster crouched, tail twitching, ears flat against its skull, watching the fire—

Then the monster looked up, its ears going forward. It growled.

A second later, Vivianne heard shouts and running feet. She lifted her wand, one last spell on her lips—

The mud-tiger roared, turned tail, and ran through the opening in the flames, heading toward the Forest.

_What the—_ “Yeah, you better run!” Vivianne shouted after it. She slashed her wand with one more _Sectumsempra!_ “Run back to your mother, you big baby! I’ll—I’ll set your bloody tail on fire! _Incendio_!”

The jet of flame shot after the monster, and Vivianne fell to her knees, panting, watching as it lit up the mud-tiger’s retreat.

* * *

“You’re going to piss him off, Leo.” Zanetti was accompanying Leo as he walked around the lake, checking one last time for the creature from the ruins.

“All I said is I’m not going. Nowhere in my contract does it say I have to willfully endanger the lives of my students, certainly not for the sake of Rove’s pride.” Leo stumped along, finding it odd to not have Dragon’s now-familiar presence radiating warmth from his pocket or collar of his coat. “If he wants to pry himself out of his cushy office and take the kids …” He trailed off significantly.

“Rove would _never_ do that, and you know it.” Zanetti’s brown eyes flickered toward him then out over the lake.

“Exactly. He’s not risking his arse, I’m not risking mine, and if that pisses him off? He’s a worse bloody hypocrite than even I believed.” He sighed, a thin fog easily seen in the moonlight.

“As you shouldn’t; it’s a very nice arse.” Zanetti smirked, exaggeratingly dropping her eyes to check it out. It had been years since someone had done that, and Leo might have responded, except in that moment they heard a student cry, “HELP!” from somewhere out in the night, and there was no time.

Both instructors ran in the direction of the cry, only to find Vivianne Gorlois on her knees, bleeding profusely into the snow, laughing hysterically. The snow was churned with mud and bits of swamp rock; he didn’t even have to ask what had caused the wound.

Leo conjured bandages, something to slow the bleeding until they could get her to Pomfrey and the infirmary. Zanetti helped her to her feet and steadied her with an arm around the shoulder as he wound the bandages.

“Did—didja see it?” Vivianne sounded almost drunk, though he would guess it was adrenaline paired with blood loss that was the culprit, not alcohol. “It ran away like a fright—frightened little kitten.” She laughed again.

“It’s all right, Miss Gorlois,” Leo said soothingly.

“A-a course it is. I sent it home to its mama like a big bay-baby.” The sixth year swayed even in Zanetti’s hold and Leo jerked his chin at the school with a nod. They got her moving, up and into the castle, finding a knot of instructors just inside the door as they came in.

“Hagrid,” Leo started, “there should be some mud outside, like the stuff I showed you when Dragon was injured. Could you please go collect as much of it as you can? Take Neville with you. The creature from the ruins is responsible and is obviously not afraid to come up to the school.” Hagrid and Longbottom shared a quick glance and nodded. “Bart, go talk with Filius, please. Get him to lock down the school, just to be on the safe side. As much as I loathe to ask it, Pomona, could you go get Rove and send him to the infirmary, then inform Yaxley? If you can, try and convince her to fire-talk Vivianne’s mother; knowing the two of them, they’ll get distracted and buy us enough time to figure out what happened.”

His fellow teachers scattered, hurrying off in a flurry of fluttering robes and quick footfalls. Zanetti’s eyebrow was arched slightly as they made their way up the stairs to the infirmary.

“Pro—professor?” Vivianne said worriedly. “The—the stairs are spinning and I think—I think I’m going to be sick?” Though it should have been a statement, it sounded much more like a query. Still, he quickly conjured a basin, and true to her words, she emptied the contents of her stomach into it. A quick _Evanesco_ took care of the basin’s contents. He somehow doubted that Pomfrey would need it.

“We’re almost at the infirmary, Miss Gorlois,” he reassured her, in the kind of soft, soothing voice that most of Leo’s students would have denied he had the capacity to use.

“C-could—when I’m—I know you said all the students should be—you know.” She flapped her good arm in a vague gesture. “But—could Sybilla and—and Zach come see me?”

“We’ll see what Madam Pomfrey has to say, but it’s not outside the realm of possibility,” Leo said as they rounded the corner to see the infirmary doors. “Here we are. Here we go.”

* * *

Leo had gone too far this time.

Maxwell Rove stormed down to the infirmary, portraits and ghosts watching him pass and quickly flitting out of his way. Just _who_ did that upstart Defense Against the Dark Arts professor think he was? He was a head of a department – two departments, technically – and head of Gryffindor house, but he was _not_ the deputy headmaster, and he was _not_ headmaster.

He had no authority to put the school on lockdown!

And the fact that it was a good idea – the only responsible idea – did nothing to improve Rove’s mood. He couldn’t even tell Filius to let the students out of their common rooms and dormitories. He had no way to regain his authority—

Well, other than putting Leo firmly back into his place and taking control of the situation, running things as they _ought_ to be run, not as that—that—that upstart dragon-dung-shoveler thought they should be run.

The infirmary doors were right in front of him, and Rove twitched his wand to open them. By rights they ought to have slammed forward, thudding against the walls with enough force to make the castle shake from dungeons to towers.

They didn’t. Instead they opened smoothly and soundlessly. Maybe it was a protective spell for the good of the patients in the infirmary. Maybe Rove was just having an off day.

If the doors wouldn’t do his bidding, though, his own voice certainly would. “ _What_ ,” he demanded, “is the _meaning_ of all this?!”

“What,” asked an irascible, insubordinate, and thoroughly annoying voice, “is the ‘all this’ we’re supposed to be divining the meaning of?”

“Leo!” Rove rounded on him, trying not to show how pleased he was to see Leo here – the better to make certain he knew just _who_ was headmaster – and quite possibly not succeeding as well as he had hoped. “What are you doing in here? Don’t you have students to check up on?”

“Zanetti said she would handle it.” Leo shrugged. “We figured I should be the one to talk to you.”

_Oh, did you, then?_ Rove straightened his robes and stared the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor down – not easy when the other professor had the better part of a foot on him.

The fact that Leo simply raised an eyebrow only made things worse.

Rove took a deep breath and didn’t break off the glare for a second. Persistence – that would be the key here. _If at first you don’t succeed, try and try again._ It was a philosophy that had stood him in good stead for the better part of a half a century in education and Ministry work.

“Fine,” Rove fired back. “You thought _you_ should be the one to speak with me. So start speaking. What in Merlin’s name is going on?”

“A sixth-year student was attacked by the same beast that’s been lurking around in the ruins.” Leo paused, before adding, quite deliberately, “The same one that, I believe, may have been tailing _you_ at one point.”

“And what was this student that caused him—”

“Her.”

“Her—whatever—to be attacked?” Rove demanded.

“Existing?” Leo shrugged. “Her arm was raked pretty badly, by the way. Lost quite a bit of blood.” He paused again, then added, “In fact—I think some of it may have dripped on the floor. Where your robes are.”

Rove gasped and looked down—and when he saw that Leo was right, he yelped and jumped away.

And when he looked more closely, he saw quite a few drops of blood on the infirmary floor … he felt the blood drain from his face and his heart start to pound …

“ _Scourgify_ ,” Leo said with an almost lazy flick of his wand. The blood drops disappeared. “Probably should have done that sooner.”

Rove could breathe again with the blood gone, but his heart was still pounding. That … had been quite a bit of blood …

“Is she all right?” Rove asked, forgetting to sound angry or annoyed.

“Poppy is working on her now. She’s patched up worse. And the student was conscious and speaking when we brought her in.” Leo shrugged. “It’s Vivianne Gorlois, by the way.”

Rove found himself nodding absently; the name didn’t stick out as a known troublemaker, like those bothersome Gryffindor boys—

_Wait._

“… Gorlois?” he squeaked.

Leo nodded.

“Which—oh Merlin—which one is she?” he asked, not sure he wanted to know but knowing he had to know. Already the horrible possibilities were rushing around his head.

“Sixth-year Slytherin,” Leo answered.

“They’re all Slytherin! And you already said sixth-year! What I mean is— _which one_? The—the—”

“I believe,” Leo interrupted, “that Rosie would be able to answer that for you. She’s Miss Gorlois’s mother’s cousin – and a very close friend beside.”

Rove’s eyes bugged, and he stumbled to the nearest bed and sat down on it, hard. There was only one Gorlois girl this one could be. The former matriarch’s granddaughter.

_Oh, Merlin, oh, Merlin, oh, Merlin—_

If the _Prophet_ caught wind of this—especially after the Gorlois matriarch had been _murdered_ —

_Oh, Merlin, oh, Merlin, oh, Merlin—_

Rove blinked suddenly, several facts falling into place at once. “Sixth-year—you said she was a sixth-year—was she— _is_ she in the archaeology class?”

“Yes,” Leo answered.

“And you said this creature was lurking around the ruins?” Rove questioned.

“Yep.”

“Well! That’s it, then!” Rove jumped up. “We—we cannot continue with the class! It’s out of the question. A—a dangerous beast attacks a student—Hogwarts cannot be seen to be slack in our duties to protect our students. No, sir! These—these aren’t the dark days when Dumbledore was in charge, when it was a matter of course for students to be sent to face the darkest wizards of the age—”

“From what I recall,” came a high, tight voice to Rove’s right, “it wasn’t like that. Of course, those were dark days – and Merlin knows I didn’t have much decision-making power back then.” The voice grew tighter with every word. “But considering how much experience I had patching up the aftermath of those little—episodes, I think I can say quite firmly that it was never Albus’s intention to _send_ students after the worst dark wizards.”

Rove slowly, very slowly, turned to see Poppy Pomfrey glaring at him.

He couldn’t help it—he gulped. Poppy, he knew, could be very strict with her charges, but he had never seen her act in a way that could be called unkind. But the way she was staring at him now—

“How is Vivianne?” Leo asked, and suddenly, the spell was broken as Poppy turned to him.

Poppy sighed. “She’ll do. Thankfully, the—whatever it was that got her doesn’t have any venom on its claws that I could find. Her wounds healed with a couple of quick spells, and as long as I keep her on Blood-Replenishing Potions, she should be fine by morning. Physically, at any rate.”

“She mentioned something about wanting to see her friends when I brought her up here,” Leo replied – which wasn’t at all to the point, at least in Rove’s mind. “You think that would be wise?”

“How many friends are we talking?” Poppy asked, eyes narrowing.

“Just two.”

Poppy frowned and glanced to the side, at a bed carefully screened by privacy curtains. “Sybilla Cromwell and Zach Duncan?”

“However did you guess?” Leo asked with a sardonic smile.

Poppy only nodded. “She asked for them. I heard the announcement about the school being locked down, but … if it can be managed …”

Rove’s mouth opened to protest. It wouldn’t do to make exceptions to a school-wide lockdown. As much as Miss Gorlois might want the company of her friends—

And then the headlines streaked across his mind. _Student attacked at Hogwarts – Denied access to friends and family – Concern for students’ safety grows –_

“So long as Poppy agrees it would be in the best interests of the patient,” Rove said, straightening his robes and standing up very straight, “I believe that allowing Miss Gorlois to see a few – select – students would be all to the good. See to it that she sees her friends, Leo.”

Poppy and Leo shot him strange, sudden looks. If Rove didn’t know better, he would have said that they looked almost surprised. But surprised at what? It couldn’t be him taking control of the situation and rendering a final verdict. He _was_ the headmaster.

And as he was the headmaster … “Have Miss Gorlois’s parents been notified?” he asked.

Poppy and Leo exchanged glances. “I believe Pomona may have been the one to tell Rosie what happened – and I’m sure Rosie would want to inform her friend herself.”

Poppy’s eyes went wide, but Rove couldn’t understand why. What could be more natural than that? Though it was a bit odd that Rosie wasn’t here, checking on her student and her cousin’s daughter … her cousin, as a point of fact!

But he didn’t have time to concern himself with that, not right now. “Very well. Should—er—Mrs. Gorlois wish to speak with me, please let her know that I am fully available to address all of her concerns. We must show that all of our students are in the best of care here at Hogwarts!”

Rove straightened his robes and beamed. He wasn’t sure why Leo and Poppy weren’t smiling.

“We will,” Leo replied. “However …” Again that blasted eyebrow went up. “Maxwell, are you sure keeping vigil on Miss Gorlois is the best use of your time? After all, don’t you have other—more important—things that want your attention?”

Rove’s mouth opened, about to protest that of course there was nothing more important than ensuring the safety and proper care of a student—

“Such as letting the Ministry know that the archaeology class will be canceled?” Leo nudged.

_Oh, Merlin!_

Yes, he had to do that – he was sure his contacts would fully understand once he laid out his reasoning – and the _Prophet_! Should he draft a press release? What were the odds that the paper would hear about this? Then again, if the paper _did_ hear about it from anyplace other than the school, _that_ would be a nightmare and a half all on its own …

Deep in thought, Rove nodded to Leo and Poppy, then he left the hospital wing.

He was the headmaster, after all. And he had so many more important things to do than hover around the bedside of a single student.

* * *

The last thing Zach would have expected, especially after the school was put into lockdown, was for Professor Flitwick to come to the door of the Hufflepuff common room and ask him to head up to the infirmary. He gave Zach a reassuring smile, but not a word of explanation, before turning off to head toward the dungeons. The school seemed – odd – with no students in the halls, not even another prefect as he usually encountered on rounds. Seeing Nearly Headless Nick watching a door with Professor Pythagoras did nothing to make him feel better.

It was none too soon that he reached the door to the infirmary and poked his head inside to see Professor Zanetti talking in low tones with Madam Pomfrey. They both looked up when the door opened. “Professor Flitwick told me to come up?” He scrubbed a hand through his hair.

“Of course, Zach. Go on in,” Professor Zanetti gestured to the nearest, currently curtained-off bed.

“What have you done with your hair?” It was the first thing that Vivianne said when he passed inside the curtain.

“Uh …” His mind wasn’t on his hair; it was on Vivianne’s arm, which she held cradled against her chest. There were faint scars on the pale skin, scars that hadn’t been there before. “What happened?”

“You know that mud-tiger thing?”

“Oh, Merlin! Are you okay?” Zach hurried to the side of the bed, sitting down on the stool next to her and taking her hands into his.

“If she’s not, I’ll be sorely disappointed.” Sybilla’s sardonic voice came from the other side of the curtain.

“There was no venom or anything. Madam Pomfrey healed me up in seconds flat—a couple of scars and some Blood-Replenishing Potion and I’ll be _fine_ tomorrow,” Vivianne dismissed. Zach freed one hand and used it to smooth Vivianne’s hair, then did a quick job smoothing his own, remembering that Vivianne had asked about it. “A few spells and it was running back to its mother.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Nothing you don’t know about, Sybilla-dear, though that one _nonverbal_ you taught me was _most_ useful.” Vivianne looked significantly at the curtain. Sybilla mouthed something and made a slashing motion with her long plum-painted nails flashing in the light. Vivianne nodded.

Sybilla smirked for a moment.

“So, if it’s not too traumatizing to talk about, ahem, do tell.” Sybilla sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling one leg up and tucking it against her other, facing Vivianne. Vivianne leaned back against the pillow and sighed.

“We—we could just start with—what were you doing out tonight anyway?” Zach bit his lip; Vivianne lifted a hand and slid her thumb down over his lips, freeing the trapped one.

“I was reading the letter my grandmother wrote to—to Rowan.” She glanced at the curtain, not quite hiding all of the hurt in her eyes.

“She might have written you one, too,” Sybilla said into the silence.

“What?” Vivianne looked sharply at her friend. Zach thought he followed the Snitch, but then again, he wasn’t on Blood-Replenishing Potions either.

“Your grandmother. It would make sense, if there was a contingency letter for Rowan if something happened to her, for there to be a letter to _you_ as well. You’re her heir, Vivianne, and your grandmother wouldn’t have left something like that to chance. If you want to write a note to Ettie, I’ll take it up to the Owlery and send Artemis off with it tonight.”

“I doubt they’ll give you leave to do that,” Zach reminded her.

“I wasn’t planning on asking,” Sybilla said with a smirk.

Zach nodded after a moment. If she really came right down to it, he’d probably have snuck up to the Owlery to post the letter for Vivianne himself if she asked.

“You’re right; I should ask Ettie. If I’d thought about it—I’d have checked—I’d have checked the bookcase in—in my study—before I left Caer Tintagel.” Vivianne sighed.

Zach looked back and forth between Sybilla and Vivianne, suddenly curious.

“What’s on your mind, Zach?” It was Sybilla who caught it; Vivianne was too busy concentrating on her breathing and staring up at the ceiling to notice his look.

“Ettie’s the house-elf, right?” Vivianne had mentioned her – now that he thought of it, surprisingly frequently, given many old families treated house-elves as barely more noticeable than furniture.

Sybilla nodded.

“Why would you ask Ettie, I mean …” Zach winced and trailed off. There was no way to politely ask the question.

“My mother has no idea where my grandparents left me things,” Vivianne said. “That was half the point of the hiding place when I was younger. Ettie knows—well—because she likes to leave me things there too. Usually treats. Ettie makes the best salted caramels—ever. Mother and I will both break any diet for them. If Mother is more likely to get to the batch before I am, Ettie always hides a couple there for me.” Her smile was wistful, and painfully brief.

“Here.” Sybilla pulled a quill, ink, and parchment out of her bag and turned her back to Vivianne. Zach’s eyebrow went up, until Vivianne used Sybilla’s shoulder as a writing surface and penned a few lines onto it. Sybilla took her wand out, tapping the parchment to dry the ink and then it folded itself into an envelope, and she laid it in a book and stuffed everything back into the bag.

After the quill was back in the bag, Vivianne sighed again. “It’s not a very interesting story, but I guess I can tell it now before it’s been pestered out of me so many times I want to hex anyone who makes reference to it again.”

And with that, in spare – almost detached – language she described the fight with the … whatever it was. Both Zach and Sybilla were leaning a little more toward her, concern on their faces – clearer, Zach imagined, on his own face than on Sybilla’s, but clear enough on hers to recognize it for what it was.

“Sybilla, Zach? You should probably finish this up,” Professor Zanetti said from the curtain. “You don’t want Madam Pomfrey in here reminding you that Vivianne needs her rest.”

“Merlin forbid.” Sybilla smirked and Vivianne laughed. “You get some rest; I’ll make sure Cornelia pulls off no coups while you’re gone. Though—I did notice she disappeared for a short while this evening—and not with Troy.”

“Oh? Anything I should know about that?”

“Blake wasn’t around either,” Sybilla said archly.

“Oh, Merlin. Oh, I’ll never forgive myself if I miss this.” Vivianne laughed. Sybilla smirked again and took herself off without another word.

“You get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Zach?” Vivianne’s voice was … rather small as he moved to stand up.

“Yeah?”

“Could you … tell Rowan I understand?” Vivianne sighed and glanced away.

“Sure.” Zach nodded, and they reluctantly released hands as he walked – backward, it might be noted – to the curtain.

Only after it was shut, leaving a last image of Vivianne in the infirmary bed, pale as the bleached sheets and looking very young and somehow vulnerable, did he turn and face his destination.


	39. Chapter 38: The Lion Sleeps Tonight

**Chapter 38: The Lion Sleeps Tonight**

Perhaps the weirdest thing about the two archaeology classes being called together just after breakfast was the fact that Lipskit looked exhausted. No matter what was happening around the school, no matter how many pranks had caused him trouble, he usually showed only a set spectrum of expressions. He never looked _tired_.

Rove, who insisted upon being there as well, was all dressed up in an impressively embroidered set of robes – in a puce that made him look incredibly sallow – that basically screamer-headlined that he was going to be interviewed and/or be talking to high-ups in the Ministry. _He_ looked perky, well-rested; his face was molded into the very picture of pompous ass painted with grave concern.

Ben could hardly refrain from rolling his eyes.

Rove stood up and walked to the front of the line of teachers, reminding Ben just a wee little bit of an evangelical preacher from TV. “I know that this will come as a terrible disappointment to you students, having been part of history in the making. But we have decided to cancel the archaeology course for the foreseeable future. Miss Gorlois was attacked by an—” Rove shot a glare at Lipskit, who wasn’t even pretending to pay attention to the headmaster, being far more interested – at least ostensibly – in rubbing his Knarl’s tummy than in Rove’s speech “—unknown creature that may be tied to the ruins.

“Even if the creature did not come _from_ the ruins, it is far too dangerous, while it is running loose, for you students to be placing yourselves in danger by traversing the Forest twice a day.” Rove permitted himself a grave smile, and Ben had to – _had to,_ it was a moral imperative – wipe it off his face.

Ben’s hand immediately shot up. Rove looked a little less certain already, and Ben hadn’t said anything yet. Internally he might have smirked – just a little – but outwardly he had plastered his most wide-eyed innocent look square on his face.

“Yes, Mr. Moore?” Rove sighed.

“But, Professor Rove, shouldn’t we have suspected there were things we don’t know about in the forest? It _is_ called the _Forbidden_ Forest, probably for a reason—and not alliteration. So we’re probably not in any more danger than we ever were—Uncle Chester told me when I was that high,” he gestured perhaps three feet off the ground, “that if I insisted on stickin’ my hand in prairie dog holes an’ snake holes, I was gonna get bit.”

“What are you implying—that this attack was inevitable?” Rove snarled.

“No, sir! Predictable, pro’ly, inevitable, not so much.” Ben’s face and voice were schooled to maximum earnestness. “An’ I don’t even know I’d say I was implyin’ anything. Just it’s basic math, right, one plus one equals two. We don’t know that much about the Forbidden Forest, sos there’s gotta be stuff in there we don’t know about—an’ then unlike many years prior, we’re goin’ in groups into them woods like a lot, seems logical we’d kick up sum’in we dunno jack-rabbits about. Right?”

Rove, who had crossed his arms over his chest during Ben’s little speech, was drumming his fingers on his biceps, looking petulant.

_There, all better,_ Ben thought snidely.

“I will leave the rest of your questions in Professor Lipskit’s hands,” Rove said.

Reminding himself that he was already on thin ice with the headmaster allowed him to sit on his metaphorical hands. To not call out to Rove that he hadn’t actually answered the questions that Ben had already posed, so it wasn’t so much leaving the _rest_ of Ben’s questions to Lipskit, but leaving them _all_ to him.

“Are you all right, Leo?” Professor Kilduff asked, worriedly, as Lipskit passed a hand over his eyes then scrubbed at one slightly less well-trimmed than usual cheek.

“Given _my—_ very vocal—stance on the implementation on of this class, I don’t think he should be blaming _me_ and me alone for the fact that it all went pear-shaped,” Lipskit muttered, though in the silence it carried. “But that’s politicians for you.” He climbed to his feet, slipping his Knarl back into the pocket of his robes.

“That is a good question, Mr. Moore. We probably should have expected this much more than we did. The Hogwarts staff isn’t infallible, who knew?” Lipskit sighed.

“You could pass this down the line, sir; Professor Rove passed it to you, you could pass this to us,” Ben offered, netting dirty looks from most of his classmates.

“I’m not Professor Rove, Moore. We _are_ culpable. And you students—if you students made mistakes—it was only because our mistakes allowed them.” Lipskit took the time to meet each pair of eyes in the room, waiting for a nod from each student before moving onto the next. “At this point, we can just live and learn.”

_Unless of course you’re Rove, then you just live._ Ben kept that one behind his teeth. He didn’t want to make Lipskit have to choose between being honest and defending Rove. His propensity for being a smartass had already bought him enough today.

“Are there any other questions?”

“Can we still say we were in the class—say to future employers?” Milla Dietz from the pack of seventh-year students asked.

“I don’t see why you couldn’t. The class ending is not even from your side. The class was ended; you didn’t drop out of it. And you did put nearly half a school year’s worth of work into it,” Professor Lipskit said, before nodding at the next student to raise his hand.

Rowan offered Ben a shaky, almost guilty, smile when he glanced at her. So the only question Ben was left with was – why did the guillotine blade still feel raised? The class was over, but this – this wasn’t, was it? 

* * *

Vivianne’s first class after the meeting with the archaeology class – a meeting in which she endured more than her fair share of stares and whispers – was Defense Against the Dark Arts. She thought she would be safe there. Surely everyone was too nervous about Professor Lipskit to dare ask Vivianne questions or try to derail the class to gossip.

Or not. Someone had to try to push the bloody envelope – and of course it was Antony Quince. When Professor Lipskit paused in his planned lecture, Antony’s hand went up.

Professor Lipskit seemed to sense what was coming, because he paused and sighed before he answered. “Yes, Mr. Quince?”

“Um, Professor, not that this lecture isn’t fascinating,” Antony said, and really, if he was any worse a liar he never should have been let into Slytherin, “but don’t you think that, maybe, given what happened last night, that we should be discussing something a little more … practical?”

Professor Lipskit arched an eyebrow. It was an eyebrow that had to have beaten better men into submission – “better” of course, because it took somebody as dense as Antony to pretend he didn’t care about that eyebrow. “And what might that be, Mr. Quince?”

“Well … you know. Things like … how to fight off nasty creatures from the Forbidden Forest?”

“If I recall correctly,” Professor Lipskit answered, “you’ve all been forbidden from going onto the grounds without a teacher until this creature is taken care of. So unless you’re planning on breaking numerous school rules right after a student got attacked, I don’t think this is something we need to go over right at this moment.”

He had barely finished before James’s hand was in the air. Professor Lipskit shook his head, but he asked, “Yes, Mr. Fawley?”

“Professor, many of the younger students are exceedingly nervous after what happened,” James replied. “I can’t speak for all of the houses – but after we learned what had happened, tensions were very high in the Slytherin common room. I believe some of the younger students even had nightmares.”

_They had nightmares?_ Vivianne wondered, but Professor Lipskit was glancing at Claudia, and Vivianne glanced that way too.

Claudia sighed and rubbed her temple, but reluctantly, or so Vivianne thought, she nodded.

Professor Lipskit took a deep breath, and that was when Vivianne realized that the only way they were going to get through this quickly was if she gave the class what they wanted.

She raised her hand.

The rest of the class – even Belle, Frida, and Claudia – sat forward.

“Yes, Miss Gorlois?” Professor Lipskit asked.

Vivianne didn’t address him. She turned to Antony. “Fire,” she said. “Fire works _very_ well. The – thing – grew nervous when I shot some sparks out of my wand, and a few Fire-Making Spells sent it crying for its mother. Even a first year ought to be able to manage that much until help arrives.”

“Like Shere Khan?” Belle murmured; then her eyes went wide and she shot a panicked glance at Professor Lipskit.

“Like _what_?” Frida snorted. “Sheer can?”

“Shere Khan,” Professor Lipskit corrected. “A tiger in Rudyard Kipling’s _The Jungle Book_. Also in the movie of the same name. Vicious predator, but afraid of fire – at least in the movie.” He raised an eyebrow at Frida, as if asking for more questions.

Frida, however, turned to Belle. “A Muggle … movie?”

Belle didn’t answer. She did meet Frida’s stare with a raised eyebrow of her own. It wasn’t nearly as impressive as Lipskit’s.

Professor Lipskit coughed. “Mr. Quince, Mr. Fawley – does that answer your question?”

James hesitated for a split second before nodding. Antony scowled, but he nodded too.

Professor Lipskit continued with his lecture.

The sad thing, Vivianne realized later, was that that would be the easiest class of the day.

The minute class was dismissed, Vivianne could practically see the rumors swirling around. Whispers jumped from student to student. Every time Vivianne came up on a conversation, the talkers broke off with guilty looks in her direction. And sometimes she caught words, words like “fire” and “ _Incendio_ ” and “sparks.”

That bloody tiger, Shere Khan, kept coming up as well.

The class she had after Defense Against the Dark Arts was Charms, and in its own particular way that was worse. One of the Ravenclaw girls, Noelle, seemed to have been deputized by the others to go up and ask Vivianne how she was doing. Vivianne responded, tightly, that she was fine and asked after Noelle’s health as well, because it was only polite. Noelle gave a quick answer and scurried back to the safety of her housemates.

Vivianne couldn’t help but notice that Rowan had looked up when Noelle was sent on her fact-finding mission. She sat on the opposite side of the classroom, flanked by Quill and Jon. It wouldn’t take a Legilimens to tell what she was thinking – the expression on her face was more than enough.

But Rowan wouldn’t meet her eyes for more than a second, and so Vivianne had to let that matter rest.

She still had the letter. She supposed she ought to give it back. But right now … thinking of everything that had happened …

She’d find time later.

Today’s class was supposed to be about Conjuration Charms, but Professor Flitwick only got five minutes into his planned lesson before Owen Wildsmith raised his hand. “Um, Professor,” he asked, “I know we’re supposed to be talking about something else today – but do you think we could maybe get a refresher on fire-making charms?”

_Oh, bloody hell._

Professor Flitwick didn’t answer directly. First, he took a long, hard look at Vivianne.

Then he turned to Owen. “Owen … all things considered, I don’t think that would be a bad idea. Turn to – let’s see – I believe it’s Chapter 4 in your level of the _Standard Book of Spells_.”

Biting back a groan, Vivianne did as the professor said.

“Oh, come on, Vivianne,” Sybilla murmured to her. Apparently Vivianne wasn’t doing as good a job of hiding her expression as she thought. “If you play your cards right, you might be able to set something on fire before the class is over. And you won’t even lose house points for it.”

“Whereas if I don’t get this release,” Vivianne murmured back, “I’ll set something on fire _and_ lose house points for it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Sybilla-darling, you didn’t have to.”

* * *

“You should probably tell dear Zachary how you’re feeling,” Sybilla prompted as Zach and Spencer approached the two Slytherin girls in the hall after dinner. They’d have to hurry to one of the study lounges, being as the school was in semi-lockdown after dark until the creature that had attacked had been caught. Ben, according to Rowan, had been muttering about shutting the barn after the horse had walked off, but Zach could understand some caution.

“Why so, Sybilla-darling?” Vivianne was twirling her wand – a length of fir cunningly and beautifully carved to resemble rose vines, with even the occasional thorn – in her fingers. Seeing her like that, head up, shoulders back, challenge written in every line, it was not much wonder that much of the school liked to call her Queen Vivianne.

“Because he worries about you—and yet knows that you’re probably two minutes away from hexing the next person to ask you how you are.” Sybilla smirked.

Vivianne grimaced but nodded. “I’m fine. Really. The Blood-Replenishing Potions worked wonders and other than a faint couple of scars—highly prized, if you’ll recall, in the wizarding world—you wouldn’t know I took on a muddy tiger yesterday … other than everyone running around worried about it,” she said, ducking under Zach’s arm.

“Did your little friend get moved over to the other dorm?”

“Miri? Oh, yes, she did. Haley and Penny actually moved all of Miri’s stuff to the other dorm without even asking. We had a brief bit of having to calm Miri down because she thought she’d gotten kicked out of school.” Spencer sighed.

“And then Juliette has had to chase Dara out of that dorm three times,” Zach added with a sigh. Vivianne and Sybilla shared a glance.

“You know, there’s this old tower on my family’s property. When the manor was walled, it was a guard tower. I found it when I was about six—maybe—my brothers were both off at Hogwarts and my mother was—her usual charming self.”

“Read annoying, stuck up, overbearing,” Vivianne muttered to Zach and Spencer, before rolling her eyes.

Zach raised an eyebrow before noticing that Blake was in the shadows and glaring in their direction. Sybilla spun her wand around the back of her hand, and Blake disappeared down a side corridor.

“Thank you, Vivi-darling,” Sybilla said as if she hadn’t been eyeing Vivianne’s ex-boyfriend with target practice on her mind “Anyway, long walks became much preferable to spending any time in the manor—Mother could always find me, you see. Now, most of the tower has succumbed to time and the elements, but there’s one room that’s still solid. I started taking my books and so forth out there—it was a good place, well, to hide.

“Then one day, my mother found it—and it became necessary for me to make sure she never came into it again.” Sybilla grinned. “Did you know you can personalize repulsion charms?”

“Well, I assumed it was possible,” Spencer said after sharing a glance with Zach. “But I have no idea how to.”

“ _I_ do.”

“Yes, Sybilla, but …” Spencer pushed his glasses up.

“You’re a genius; we’re Hufflepuffs,” Zach finished.

“And adorable ones at that.” Vivianne grinned.

“Just because you can do it—doesn’t mean I can or Zach can or even Juliette could,” Spencer admitted, scuffing a shoe at a flagstone.

“If you can get me into the common room, you wouldn’t have to.” Sybilla batted her lashes at Spencer.

“Okay, as a prefect, I must remind you both that that’s against a bunch of school rules,” Zach said opening the door to the study lounge.

“And as a friend of both Miri _and_ Juliette, I must remind you of how many headaches this would spare _everyone_ in Hufflepuff,” Spencer shot back.

He had a point there. Juliette was about ready to spit nails, Miri was looking even more sleepless – even moving her to a different dorm hadn’t solved the problem, and wouldn’t, not until they could keep Dara out of that dorm. And – given what he’d helped with at the first Hogsmeade weekend – that wasn’t exactly any _less_ rule breaking.

“If you do decide to do it, don’t tell me—then I’m not obligated to tell anyone else,” Zach said as he and Vivianne settled onto one of the sofas with Spencer and Sybilla on the other one.

“So, who else wanted to make Vivianne’s cousin really jealous this morning?” Sybilla asked after a long moment.

“How so?” Vivianne asked, her eyebrow arched.

“I almost wanted to kiss Ben Moore this morning in the meeting about the archaeology class being canceled.” Sybilla smirked and looked Spencer.

“I don’t know if I would go so far as to _kiss_ him.” Vivianne stretched her legs out and rolled her head on her neck. “But you can pretty much depend on him to say the things other people are thinking—even to Rove—when no one else would.”

“Wow, the two most Slytherin Slytherins in the school admiring the most Gryffindor Gryffindor in the school; we should alert the press.” Spencer deadpanned.

“But not the _Prophet_ —no one would believe it,” Zach said before he could stop himself.

“Bravo, Zachary.” Sybilla smirked. “Our sweet little Hufflepuff prefect is on his way to becoming a full-fledged smartass.”

“I know. I’m so proud.” Vivianne patted his cheek.

“Can I ask …” Zach pushed a hand through his hair.

“Sure, Vivianne will be distracted by fixing your hair for several minutes, now’s a great time to ask.” Sybilla batted her lashes at Vivianne, who scowled, even as her hand had already fallen to tidying Zach’s hair.

“You just looked—um—really irritated at Professor Yaxley this afternoon.”

“I was attacked yesterday, lost quite a bit of blood—and my mother, rather than asking after any of that, apparently spent the better part of an hour talking about where I should order my dress robes from for my coming of age party—in _March_. She thought we could make plans to go in for measurements and look at sketches when I go home for Christmas,” Vivianne said tartly.

“And the incredibly dirty look was for?” Spencer asked.

“Yaxley actually thought I would like her catalogs from the continent to use in my spare time now that the archaeology class has been canceled.” Vivianne’s expression was flat.

“Gee, does Tarts R’ Us actually put out a catalog?” Spencer muttered to Sybilla.

“You two were made for each other; you know that, right?” Vivianne sighed and rested her head on Zach’s shoulder.

“Now, now, if Spencer was made for me, why doesn’t he have the sterling bloodline that my mother wants?” Sybilla pursed her lips.

“Because you wouldn’t want to marry anyone your mother wanted to you to marry and thus you would completely ignore Spencer if he were someone your mother would approve of.” Vivianne pulled a magazine out of her bag with a sigh.

“I thought you weren’t going to look yet?” Sybilla peered at the magazine cover.

“It’ll give me _something_ to do over holiday other than miss my grandmother.” Vivianne sighed again. “If only this season’s robes weren’t awful. Like this—who would wear something like that?” Zach, Spencer, and Sybilla all craned their necks to look at the page.

“Yaxley,” Sybilla suggested.

“I doubt it; I think it’s a trifle modest at the neckline and hem for her,” Vivianne said. “And this much lace hasn’t been in fashion since—Marie Antoinette still had her head.” She shook hers with a sigh.

“I dunno, that one could be worse.” Sybilla tapped one of the pictures.

“They could all _be_ worse, Sybilla; the question is how hard you have to work at worse.”

“So’s your mother’s stuff any better than this?” Sybilla asked, shooting Zach a look. “I noticed Claudia asked if you had a copy of her catalog.”

“I like to think so,” Zach admitted.

“Well, let’s find out. Ten galleons says you have a copy.”

“Actually, I have a copy of her lookbook, not her catalog; she doesn’t really do a catalog.” Zach stuck his tongue out at Sybilla before digging in his book bag and pulling out the thin sheaf of paper. Across the simple black front _Wendy Duncan, Atelier_ and _Spring/Summer 2009_ were written in silver script.

“Well, on that note, it’s better than some of these already.” Vivianne took it from Zach and flipped it open; her eyes widened slightly. Sybilla looked from Vivianne to the book to Zach and back to the book before boosting herself onto the arm of the sofa next to Vivianne.

Apparently the two of them had some sort of telepathy, because one would point to something on the page and without even saying anything the other would look and nod – or shake her head – though Zach hoped it was good because the nods came much more frequently than the head shakes.

“So, question, Zach? Or two, maybe?”

“A-all right?” Zach said nervously.

“First of all, do you need this? Can we keep it?” Sybilla asked.

“Well, I had my mum send extras, just in case. The last time she sent one for Claudia, Shae and Juliette both asked for copies,” Zach said. “So, I guess so.”

“Second, I assume the contact information is in the book.” Zach reached over and flipped to the last page of the book, pointing to that exact place.

“Is that good?” Spencer asked when the girls went back to examining the designs. Zach shook his head and spread his hands.

* * *

“And you’re s-sure she’s all r-right?” Rowan asked as she, Zach, and Jon made their way in from Care of Magical Creatures with the rest of the class. She shivered and held her cloak a little closer to herself. Even walking fast enough to keep up with Professor Lipskit – the man moved faster than anyone with a cane by right ought to – the wind cut through her cloak, leggings, and any crevices and openings in her clothing.

For one of the first times, she was almost … not glad … but not sorry the class had been canceled. Another two and a half hours in this was not something she looked forward to.

Zach answered as they walked in through the big doors, and everyone paused to zap snow, slush, and everything else away with the spells of their choice. “She’s fine. Madam Pomfrey fixed her up with a few spells and a Blood-Replenishing Potion. Vivianne says that all she has left are some rather fashionable scars.”

Rowan glanced up at Zach, sidelong, to see him smiling. It was a small smile – the kind that the wearer sometimes didn’t even know he had. Rowan permitted herself a tiny smile in reply.

Jon caught her eye, waggling his eyebrows, then asked, “Say, Rowan, is it true that Muggles will put someone else’s blood into you if you’ve lost a lot?”

“Y-yes,” Rowan replied. “B-but it’s not as—” She stopped. “N-no—maybe it _is_ as g-gross as it s-sounds—but they d-don’t have B-Blood-Replenishing Potions, and it b-beats dying.”

“Well, put _that_ way …” Jon mused as he led the way off to one of the study lounges. Jon, Rowan knew, had fifteen minutes before he had to head up to Muggle Studies. As for she and Zach, they were free until dinner. This chunk of time used to be occupied by the archaeology class, but now …

Well, now that wasn’t happening any more.

They ducked into one of lounges on the first floor, the better to be out of the way of any teachers who wanted to still enforce the quasi-lockdown. Besides, it was the one that Rowan had told Ben she’d meet him in as soon as he was done with his class.

Rowan collapsed into one of the cozy armchairs, Jon and Zach tossing themselves onto a sofa. A few waves of her wand got the fire in the hearth burning much more cheerfully while she busied herself with getting her cloak off and casting a Shrinking Charm on it to stuff it into her bag.

When Rowan opened her bag, she saw the _Historie_ – and a wave of guilt came crashing into her again.

If it wasn’t for the book – the letter – Rowan’s big mouth – Vivianne wouldn’t have been attacked by that … thing.

And it didn’t matter that, logically, Vivianne was one of the “best” people in the school for that thing to attack – that Vivianne could and would send it packing to its mother, while other students might not have been that vicious or that lucky. Rowan pushed her hair away from her face and sighed. If she’d just kept her mouth shut …

“Rowan,” Zach said, and Rowan looked up. “You know Vivianne getting attacked is not your fault, right?”

Jon was glancing from Zach to Rowan and back again, one eyebrow raised. More guilt. Jon only had a hazy idea of what had happened, what that letter was about. He knew that there _was_ a letter, but other than that …

It wasn’t that Rowan didn’t want to explain – it was that doing so felt like betraying a confidence. Vivianne surely wouldn’t want it getting around just how hurt she’d looked when Rowan let slip about the book, and worse, about the letter. And even if Vivianne’s pride could handle that – to really make it possible to understand what that letter meant, she’d have to explain about the funeral, what she’d seen and what she’d guessed.

Vivianne didn’t need the entire school to know that her mother was a bit of a tart with the mind of a kitten and a frankly troubling relationship with alcohol. Nobody in the school needed to know that Professor Yaxley had been matching Aunt Josie cup for cup and tart for tart. And Rowan most emphatically did not need Professor Yaxley to ever find out that she’d been the one to spread those rumors.

So keeping quiet was the most sensible course of action. Even if some of the other students spread the rumors – well, if she kept quiet, maybe Professor Yaxley wouldn’t be able to trace it all back to Rowan. Maybe.

Zach, however, deserved an answer – and so did Jon, if she could figure out how to thread that particular needle. “M-maybe – well – m-maybe if I’d kept my m-mouth shut …”

“Rowan, come on,” Jon pointed out, perhaps a little ruthlessly. “Even Vivianne went outside to read that letter in private … it’s not your fault that she felt she had to go _outside_. There are at least a dozen places in Ravenclaw Tower where you can read a letter in private if you want to.”

Rowan raised an eyebrow. “Jon, d-do you think _anyone_ w-wants Vivianne in Ravenclaw Tower?”

Zach winced.

“Well, no—but you’d think Slytherin would have the same thing. If it doesn’t—or if it does, but Vivianne didn’t feel it was secure enough—well, that’s not your fault.” Jon leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Besides, when you think about it, there’s got to be a hundred places to be hidden inside the school. More, if you know how to use a Disillusionment Charm.”

Rowan frowned. “W-w-would that work, though? I m-mean – if you’re using a Disillusionment Charm – if you use it on the l-letter, you can’t r-read it. If you _d-don’t_ , then s-somebody is going to notice a letter f-floating in midair.”

“Maybe. You’d be amazed by how unobservant some people can be, honey-bear.”

Rowan raised an eyebrow and tried to line up a retort, except she saw Zach looking between the two of them and shaking his head. Smiling, but shaking his head.

“I think Adonis has had enough of our nerding,” Jon stage-whispered.

“I didn’t—”

“You didn’t _have_ to,” Jon said, pinching Zach’s cheek. Rowan giggled, very glad that she was on the chair by herself and that Jon would have to get past Zach to get to her.

“Oh, sure, _you_ laugh,” Zach said, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

That just made Rowan giggle harder. And for the first time since she’d heard what had happened, she started to feel better.

It didn’t last. Jon glanced at his watch and had to head up to Muggle Studies – and when he left, Zach was looking rather guiltily at his own watch.

“G-going somewhere?” Rowan asked, head tilted to one side.

“I have to meet Juliette,” Zach said, “and we have to be …” He sighed. “Somewhere that isn’t the Hufflepuff common room.”

Rowan raised an eyebrow, but if Zach had wanted her to know more, he would have said more. So she didn’t ask.

“You c-c-could bring her here?” Rowan asked. “B-Ben’s going to be c-coming down as soon as he’s done with Ancient R-Runes. We c-could hang out and s-study until dinner.”

Zach’s eyebrows arched. “Ben and Juliette in a room together … that could be …”

“H-hardly worse than Ben, Juliette, S-Sybilla _and_ Vivianne in a r-room together,” Rowan pointed out. “And n-nobody d-died then.”

Zach snorted, but he shook his head and got up. “All right, you win, Rowan. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve tracked her down.”

Rowan waved, and Zach left the study lounge as well. Leaving Rowan by herself.

She shifted in her seat, and her eyes fell on her bag. And looking at her bag made her think of the book.

One of the jobs – _the_ job, according to the letter Vivianne’s grandmother had left to her – of the Keeper of the Book was to advise the matriarch. Rowan had no idea how Vivianne was going to take to that. But she’d looked so hurt when Rowan had said that the book had been left to her …

Maybe … maybe one of the things she could do would be to learn more about the Keepers. Maybe she could find something that might make Vivianne feel a little better. Maybe – maybe there was something about the Keepers, something that would explain why Rowan had been left the book and not Vivianne in a way that made more sense than Igraine’s rather cryptic letter.

Her mind made up, she reached for the book.

And hesitated. Because Ben, Zach, Juliette – they were due back in here any moment …

But Ben and Zach knew about the book, or at least they knew that there was _a_ book and that it was important to Rowan and Vivianne. And Juliette … Rowan tried to imagine Juliette showing any kind of interest in a dusty old tome being held by someone who had a bit of a reputation for liking dusty old tomes. Her brain refused to process the image.

Rowan took the book out, curled up in the chair, and opened it to the table of contents.

She frowned. Maybe … “K-Keepers of the B-Book,” Rowan murmured.

A list of names appeared on the page, in two columns. Next to each name was a set of dates. The oldest names were in runes and Roman numerals, the newer ones in English and Arabic numerals.

Rowan glanced at the last one. No, not Igraine Vivianne, that wouldn’t do her any good … the one above, however, might be useful. Esslyte Dindrane, 1857-1952. Rowan tapped her wand on the name, and the book’s pages magically began to flip.

“Using spells on a library book?” came a voice from the door to the study lounge. “Oh, for _shame_ , Rowan. You know Madam Pince will have your head if she catches you doing that.”

“And that’ll be after you’re stuck in detention for being in here all by yourself,” simpered a second voice. “Oh, Rowan, Rowan, don’t you know that students aren’t supposed to be by themselves? It’s for their own _safety_.”

Rowan sucked in her breath. She looked up.

But her ears weren’t tricking her. She wasn’t imagining things. If anything, it was worse.

Trish and Frida were standing at the door to the lounge. Both had their wands out, Trish attempting to spin hers in her fingers.

And Frida was smirking at the book.


	40. Chapter 39: Wax On, Wax Off

**Chapter 39: Wax On, Wax Off**

Rowan sucked in air and slammed the book shut. Her hand was shaking as she reached to shove the book inside her bag. “W-w-what d-d-do you w-w-want?”

“Well, that’s rude, don’t you think?” Trish asked. “I mean, _we_ have just as much right to be here as _you_. More, I would think. Maybe we just want to study. It is, after all, a _study_ lounge.”

Pointing out the obvious – that if all they wanted to do was study, they didn’t need to have addressed Rowan – would get her nowhere. So Rowan said nothing. She just kept trying to stuff the book back into her bag.

Then Frida pointed to it. “That’s not a library book,” she asked, her eyes sparking and a slow smirk crawling across her lips, “is it?”

Rowan sucked in her next breath. That was her mistake, that split-second reaction. If she had a bit more presence of mind—if she was a better liar—

As it was, her stammered, “Y-y-y-yes, it is,” convinced no one.

“I don’t think so,” Frida chuckled. “Let’s see what it is. _Accio_ book!”

For once Rowan’s instincts were quicker than her panic. Her wand was up, _PROTEGO!_ shouted in her mind.

The Summoning Charm bounced off the Shield Charm in a flash of purple-and-black light.

Frida hissed. “Now, was that called for? Battle magic?”

Rowan hugged the book to her chest with her left arm. Her right hand held her wand, shaking as it pointed at Frida and Trish. “The b-b-book is m-m-mine. You—you t-t-tried to s-s-steal my p-p-property.”

“Ooh, she contradicts herself,” Trish laughed. “Which is it, half-blood? Your book or the library’s?”

Rowan swallowed and said nothing, her grip still tight on the book.

“Who cares?” asked Frida. “I don’t feel like playing games with the hapless half-blood today, Trish.”

She smiled. And Rowan’s eyes went wide.

“At least …” Frida went on. “Not _these_ kinds of games. _Flipendo_!”

Rowan’s Shield Charm wasn’t fast enough for this one. Frida’s spell hit her square in the chest, making her shout and knocking her backward—and the chair with her.

The chair flipped over, and that—that was Rowan’s saving grace. Because the chair was _cover_.

So even though Rowan landed on the ground in a heap, she had the chair between her and Frida and Trish. And that gave her a couple of seconds.

The first thing she did was shout the last line of the rhyme. The book turned invisible. Rowan crouched with one knee on it.

“What the hell was that?” asked Trish.

“Who cares? I want that book! _Red—_ ”

_SHIT!_ Rowan had seen Frida’s Reductor Curse before—it had blown a table to splinters in front of her, quite literally—and if she was aiming it at the chair—

Rowan popped out long enough to point her wand at Frida’s throat and think, _SILENCIO!_

Frida’s curse cut off with a gasp. She breathed in sharply. Her mouth opened.

No sound came out.

Trish gasped. “You little _bitch_! What did you do?”

Rowan didn’t answer. She crouched around the chair to shoot a stream of sparks over Trish’s head—Trish screamed and ducked even though they weren’t anywhere near her—and out into the hallway.

Hopefully someone would notice—

Then Rowan made the mistake of looking into Frida’s eyes.

The last time she had seen that icy look—

Rowan squeaked and ducked behind the chair again. Her knee fell off the book.

_NO!_ But she found the book—very quickly—and even though her hand was shaking, she shoved it back into her bag and put her bag on her.

“Little bitch! I’ll show you to shoot sparks at me!” Trish shouted. “ _Deprimo_!”

Rowan sprang out from behind the chair, trying to make it to the couch before the spell hit. She tripped over a rug and went sprawling.

The spell blasted a hole right through the chair and singed Rowan’s robes on the way past.

“Ha!” Trish laughed. “See how brave you are now, half-blood! _Furn—_ ”

Trish was standing on the same rug Rowan had tripped over. _Leviosa!_ she thought, pointing her wand at the rug.

The rug leapt into the air, tossing Trish onto her behind. “OW! You little _bitch_!”

_You already said that,_ Rowan thought, and wondered where that had come from.

But as Trish whined and shouted and rubbed her bottom, Frida came back into her own. Her lips were moving – she waved her wand –

Rowan jerked her wand, and the rug barreled toward Frida. Frida tried to jump out the way. The rug was too fast—it wrapped itself around her and brought her squirming to the ground.

“ _What_?” Trish shrieked.

“ _P-Petrificus Totalus_!” Rowan shouted.

She’d never tried the Full-Body Bind outside of practice in Defense Against the Dark Arts. She hadn’t been particularly fast or good with it then. But now—

Trish’s arms snapped to her sides, her legs locked together, and her jaw mercifully snapped shut.

But Frida—Frida was starting to struggle her way loose from the blanket—

“ _Petrificus Totalus_!” Rowan shouted again.

Frida stopped moving.

Suddenly, the only sound in the room was Rowan’s panting.

“Oh … M-M-Merlin …” Rowan whispered.

She got onto all fours, but that was as far as she got. Her arms shook as they held her up. Rowan took gulping breaths and tried to will her heart to stop pounding.

She needed to – she needed to find a teacher. She needed to say what had happened. She’d certainly lose points for this – maybe get a detention – but she had to defend herself, and hopefully the huge hole in the chair would explain why she couldn’t wait for help—

She never had the chance.

“What on _earth_ is going on here?” came a shrill voice from out in the hallway. “What was all that shouting?”

_Oh, NO!_

Rowan frantically tried to remember how to cast a Disillusionment Charm on herself—

“Somebody answer me! I heard a great deal of shouting, and let me tell you—” The sentence cut off as Professor Yaxley appeared in the door of the study lounge.

She stopped dead.

Rowan watched her eyes circle the room, taking everything in. The hole in the chair. Trish, petrified and stiff as a board. The rug around Frida, who was in the same state as Trish.

And finally Rowan, still panting, still shaking, her hand coming up of its own accord to lock on the strap of her bag.

“YOU!” she shrieked. “You stinking—half-blood—blood-traitor _scum_! WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY GIRLS?”

* * *

_Oh—for fuck’s sake,_ Ben could feel his teeth grinding even as he sprinted in the direction of the study lounge where Rowan said she’d be waiting for him. _That is so totally beyond inappropriate that I wanna call Desi and ask what the grounds for harassment are in the wizarding world._

It was probably a good thing that Rowan’s dad was not likely to ever come to Hogwarts and meet Yaxley, or she would get yanked from Hogwarts if he had to tunnel under the Muggle Repulsing Charms with a spoon. Or at least as far as Ben knew about Rowan’s dad. He was awfully determined, and this sort of shit just wasn’t done by instructors who expected to keep their jobs in the Muggle world.

“You don’t know that, Rosie!” Ben blinked and pulled up somewhat – well – short, to excuse the pun, as he heard Flitwick snarl right back.

“Look at this place, Filius; you know that _she_ is behind this. Half the furniture in this room looks like it could be used as kindling, and she was the only one standing,” Yaxley snarled.

“Right, Rowan started this because she’s not lying in a pool of blood with her skull cracked this time, I take it,” Flitwick shot back.

“That is unfair, Filius!” Yaxley said after she was finished gasping. “You keep taking this back to—to that incident.”

“And you don’t? Melodramatically calling Rowan out for every transgression without even asking any of the girls what happened?” Flitwick demanded in a tone that Ben was very glad wasn’t directed at him. “Acting as if your girls did nothing—even though there are _two_ of them and Rowan has _no_ history of ending up on the wrong end of the wand of _anyone_ else in this school. Declaring that a grudge is held and hearing nothing to the contrary, despite any amount of evidence?”

_Hello, pot, meet kettle._ Ben hid the smirk, even though he was alone in the hallway and the only ones around to possibly catch him were the ones occupied with the … disagreement.

A flicker of color caught Ben’s eyes, and he quickly cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself and melted into the shadows of an empty classroom before Rove got anywhere near him.

“Merlin’s beard! What happened here?” The headmaster almost – but not quite – sounded truly impressive in that moment.

“There was a fight between Rowan and Frida and Trish,” Flitwick told him.

“Who started it?”

It was a cacophony of _she did_ s. He couldn’t see the accusing fingers pointed, but the verbal cue was more than enough. He imagined the Slytherins complete with head of house pointing at Rowan, and sadly, Rowan and Flitwick pointing at Frida.

Rove sighed. “All right, what happened, Miss Rowle?”

“She was using her wand on an old book; I thought it came from the library.” Ah, yes, that was always Frida’s biggest trait, defender of the library books. Like Pince wouldn’t straight up cut a bitch for encroaching on her territory.

“We were just coming in to study,” Trish said.

“And Miss O’Blake?”

“I w-w-was w-waiting f-f-for my f-f-friends to c-c-come—B-Ben was s-s-supposed to m-meet m-me here after Ancient R-R-Runes—and Z-Z-Zach and Juliette w-w-were on their w-w-way up t-t-too.”

“Likely story.”

“Shut it, Rosie.” Flitwick’s snarl might well have been attached to Ben’s eyebrow. Because as he said it, Ben’s brow went Spock.

“Filius, Rosie, please.” Rove sighed in that manner that really only ever was paired with an eye roll.

“I’m sorry, Maxwell, please continue.” Flitwick sounded slightly guilty. Yaxley just huffed.

“Who cast the first spell?”

“She did.” Trish and Frida said in unison.

“No, I d-d-did _n-n-not_ , I c-cast a _Sh-Sh-Shielding_ Spell, _after_ F-Frida t-tried to s-s-steal my b-b-book with an _A-A-Accio_!” Rowan said through the sound of the professors having the gauntlet of reactions to that.

“And why did you feel that a Shielding Spell was necessary?”

“B-b-because we—we d-d-do have h-h-history and I d-d-don’t t-t-trust them. I—know w-what h-h-happened the _l-l-last t-time_ I d-d-didn’t p-p-protect myself.”

“Miss O’Blake, please, this is no place for histrionics,” Rove dismissed. “And let the girls finish, Filius.”

For a brief moment Ben fully expected to see a toad hopping out of the lounge wearing a miniature of Rove’s festive red and green robes; he was a little disappointed when he didn’t.

But as the story spilled out, slowly and with many interruptions, it sounded like he had missed a helluva pitched battle with Rowan, Boris and Natasha there. And all he wanted to do was rush in and make sure Rowan was okay.

“As it seems that all of the girls are somewhat culpable, I’ll leave each girl’s punishment in the hands of her respective head of house; pray recall that Hogwarts property _was_ destroyed and that needs to be reflected in the punishment at hand. And I will take the book.”

“No.”

Ben blinked; he imagined the others did as well.

“What was that, Miss O’Blake?”

“It’s _my_ b-book and you—you have no r-right to it.” Rowan was standing her ground, even if her voice was cracking.

“I have every right to demand the book; I’m headmaster!” And he sounded more like a petulant child on the playground denied his turn on the swing than anything as respectable as a headmaster.

“Well, you c-can’t have it,” Rowan insisted.

“Rowan?” Professor Flitwick asked.

“I’m not g-giving any of you the b-book. And—and I d-don’t care what you d-do to me for it.”

“Filius, see if you can calm Miss O’Blake down.” Rove sighed. “I don’t have time for this.” A few minutes later he walked out of the study lounge, shaking his head. Ben held his breath as Rove passed him.

Apparently Rove’s mind was on loftier things, because he didn’t even turn in Ben’s direction.

“I am disappointed in you.”

“Is that directed at your students, Rosie, or at me?” Flitwick snarked.

“Well, now that you ask, both. Obviously you can’t even keep control of your students,” Yaxley sniffed haughtily.

“Excuse me? It wasn’t _my Ravenclaws_ who had first years afraid to go walking down the hall for fear of hex wars around the corner. And unlike _Leo_ , who came down hard and fast on his Gryffindors, you laughed the whole thing off,” Flitwick shot back.

“You are familiar with the expression water under the brick, I assume.”

“Water under the _bridge_ , yes; brick, not so much.” _Oh-my-God_. Ben’s eyes were at least saucer wide. He’d have never expected that level of venom spewed out of Flitwick.

“Whatever. Now, girls. I want you to take your punishment seriously.” Yaxley inhaled with an almost hiss. “You’ll have detention with—with Filch—until the holiday break, doing cleaning and maintenance on the school’s property so you can better your understanding of respect for it.” Yaxley cleared her throat.

“A week of re-shelving books in the library with Madam Pince, Rowan.” Flitwick said it almost off-handedly. It was, were the rumors true, the exact same punishment Frida and Trish had gotten for almost killing Rowan the previous year.

“You can’t do that!” Yaxley protested. “She _destroyed_ a study lounge!”

“I believe all of the girls were culpable in that,” Flitwick insisted.

“She started it—and used battle magic!”

“Obviously we heard different versions of the story.” Flitwick sounded exasperated. “Rove said punishments were in the purview of the Head of House—and I have dealt mine. And I will _not_ change it. This is my final word.” Yaxley actually squealed in rage.

“Then—I do _not_ wish to see you in my classroom tomorrow—or ever. You are hereby excised from my NEWT-level Potions class.”

“Tearose! Rowan _needs_ a potions NEWT to get into Healer Training!” Flitwick protested as Rowan’s gasp filled the hall.

“Will you change your detention?”

“No.” Flitwick’s voice was six kinds of stubborn.

“Then it’s on _your_ head, Professor Flitwick.” Yaxley stomped out of the lounge, Frida and Trish snickering, hard on her heels, as a counterpoint to Rowan’s sobbing.

“It’s all right, Rowan. I’m sure that Professor Yaxley will come around.” That was about all Ben could take; he shed the charm and ran down the hall to the lounge. “And look, here comes Ben.” That was what it took for the tears to come on full strength.

“Aww, what’s wrong, sweetheart?” Ben knelt next to the chair she sat on. She threw her arms around his neck, sobbing into it, pressing her face so hard into the bone on the top of his shoulder that he could feel the metal of her glasses bending. He knew what was wrong, but even tacitly admitting he’d been eavesdropping in front of the deputy headmaster was a good way to get into trouble.

“P-P-Professor Y-Y-Yaxley k-k-kicked me out of P-P-Potions, B-Ben! How am I g-g-gonna g-get into h-healer t-t-training n-now?”

He stroked Rowan’s hair.

“Maybe your mom could turn her into a donkey and we could banish her off to the Sahara for a few months,” Ben suggested.

“Maybe it’s better not to tempt Elaine,” Flitwick said, guilt thick in his tone. “I’ll talk with Professor Rove. I’m not sure she can even do that.”

“Even if sh-she c-c-can’t, officially, sh-she w-will m-m-make my l-l-life so m-m-miserable,” Rowan hiccupped, “if I d-dare to sh-show up to her c-c-class, I w-w-won’t l-l-learn anything.”

“Where’s a fire ant hill, some honey, and a stake when you need ‘em?” Ben muttered.

* * *

Rowan’s hands were shaking so hard that the teacup rattled and threatened to tip over. Jon sighed and took the tea cup from her hand. Ben produced a sturdy plastic tumbler and a _long_ crazy straw, and Jon transferred Rowan’s tea to it. The tumbler floated in the air over the sofa and all Rowan would have to do was adjust the straw slightly to take a drink.

It wasn’t Zach’s favorite lounge, the one they were in now; this one was about midway between the library and Ravenclaw tower. However, he’d never seen a Slytherin, bar Claudia, Niketa, and Sybilla, in it. The Seeker was perched cross-legged on a table, the dueling captain on the back of the chair that Booker was in, and the genius was sitting on a pillow on the floor, between Spencer’s knees.

Not that it would matter, not really; a toddler would have had a hard time fitting in the room at this point. Every surface was piled with people: Rowan’s friends, Ben’s, Zach’s, up to and including girlfriends and boyfriends. They were only missing Vivianne, who was meeting with Professor Kilduff, and Miri, who was off studying with Haley. Given Candice’s temper, the latter might not be a bad thing, though Miri probably already knew the words Candice had been muttering.

“She can’t do that! Can she do that? She can’t do that!” Candice was the first one to break the silence. It was probably a good thing that she was boxed in on three sides by her friends and the fourth by a wall, else she’d probably go do something stupid. Her pixie cut was looking incredibly spiky, sticking straight up in places.

“She thinks she can,” Sybilla said with a snort and a shake of her head. “That’s about what matters.”

“And with Rove’s propensity for holding a grudge …” Cameron trailed off as Sybilla nodded.

“I know Rove didn’t—have any rights to the book, but are you certain that not giving it to him was the right decision, Rowan?” Blair twisted a curl around her finger.

“I—y-yes. The b-b-book is—it’s m-my r-r-responsibility. It—n-needs to b-be …” Rowan sighed and pulled her glasses off her nose, looking at the slightly distended metal.

“It’s more important than your since-I-was-a-firstie dream, honey-bear?” Jon rubbed her shoulder.

Rowan deflated and rested her head on Ben’s arm. But she nodded.

“You know,” Sybilla drawled, glancing up at Spencer, “I took eleven OWLs and nowhere near that many courses. NEWTs are the same way.”

“But—how c-c-can I p-p-pass it?”

“Do you really think that another year and a half of Yaxley will improve your chances of passing that NEWT?” Sybilla’s eyebrow spoke eloquently.

“I’ll tutor you, Rowan. If Professor Flitwick can’t fix this,” Spencer offered.

“He’s got a point; I learn far more pestering answers out of Spencer than I do in Yaxley’s class most of time.” Shae smiled at Rowan.

“And people say he’s as good as Sybilla.” Jon rubbed Rowan’s shoulder.

“Better.” Sybilla had a tiny, somehow serene, smirk.

“They’d better say he’s as good as you?” Shae asked, looking at Claudia, who shrugged.

“I think she’s saying Spencer’s better than she is,” Krem murmured.

“When you’re as amazing as I am, you can allow a few people to be better than you at minor things,” Sybilla dismissed as the room’s occupants blinked and stared.

“Besides, it is Spencer,” Niketa inserted snidely. Sybilla’s shrug was unrepentant.

Candice poked Quill. “Say something, quit fuming.”

“Why? As long as I’m fuming in my head, I’m not getting myself kicked out of Hogwarts by punching out Yaxley.” Quill sighed. “You are okay, though, aren’t you, Rowan?”

“Yeah, the l-l-lounge t-t-took almost all of it.” She sighed.

She seemed tired, almost strung out. It reminded Zach too much of how she’d looked in the infirmary at the end of the last year when they’d finally gotten to see her.

“So,” Kenny leaned his head against the side of Booker’s chair. “What’s likely to come out of this for you guys?” He glanced at the Slytherin girls.

_That_ was an excellent question. Niketa and Claudia looked at each other; then they simultaneously turned their gazes to Sybilla.

“That, I think, depends on Vivianne.” Sybilla twirled her wand in her fingers, tossing it up in the air and then catching it on her index finger, balancing it perfectly.

“… Why Vivianne?” Ringo frowned slightly.

“ _I_ ’m not getting in her way,” Sybilla told him.

“This is a Gorlois thing, isn’t it?” Candice burst out. “The book, the fight, the why you’re willing to give up your dream—it’s got something to do with—with those people! This kind of pish is exactly you shouldn’t have gone to the funeral. They don’t give two fucks about you—but they stuck you with something, didn’t they? Bunch of arses.”

“You finished?” Sybilla asked as everyone leaned in whatever direction took them out of the flight path from Sybilla’s wand to Candice. Except Quill, who was glaring at Candice, despite being in the most danger, sitting right in front of her. “I could speculate, but whether the book has _anything_ to do with the Gorlois clan or Vivianne is quite beside the point.”

“How is it beside the point?”

“Vivianne has made it _very clear_ that this is _her_ domain. Half of being smart, dear girl, is not being _stupid,_ if you catch my meaning.”

“What could Vivianne do to _you?_ ”

“I am in no hurry to find out, Candice.”

“Leave it alone, Candy Cane.” Aubrey nudged her. “I’m too close the path of devastation to want to find out what she’ll do to you if you don’t find some discretion.”

* * *

Shaking her head, Vivianne muttered the password to the Slytherin common room and went in. Even though her meeting with Professor Kilduff hadn’t anything to do with the canceled archaeology class, it was easy to see that the professor was still fighting off disappointment about how the class had ended. Not to mention the attack Vivianne had suffered. She’d asked three times how Vivianne was doing and if she was holding up all right.

It almost made Vivianne want to bring up that Rowan had discovered Morgan le Fay’s sigil in the ruins, just to cheer her up. Almost. Because it wouldn’t do to let that kind of knowledge out. Knowledge, after all, was power, and …

Vivianne shook her head. She had no idea what she was supposed to do with this kind of power, but that was no reason to just give it up.

The common room was relatively quiet. Many of the younger students were still in class, and it wasn’t time to dash into the common room to drop off books and papers and bags and then dash back up to dinner. The mistletoe some enterprising lad had hung up at the entrance to the girls’ dorms – and that the girls had taken down – was back up again, but nobody was standing under it and putting it to the use for which it was intended. And somebody had a wireless on playing “God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs,” though it wasn’t very loud.

Maybe that was why Vivianne heard the cackle as clearly as she did.

“And when we left, she was _sobbing_! Absolutely sobbing!” Trish squealed. “Oh, I wish more people could have seen it! It was a sight to cheer anyone up!”

Vivianne turned to look.

She saw Belle first, sitting on the sofa with James’s arm around her, staring appalled at the people on the sofa across from her. To judge by the hair, it was Frida and, of course, Trish. “You … Trish, that’s terrible! You got her kicked out of class?”

“Well, technically Flitwick did that, if what Frida and Trish are saying is correct,” James remarked, buffing his nails on his shirt and bringing them up to examine them.

“ _We_ certainly didn’t tell Flitwick to let Rowan off easy after she destroyed that study lounge,” Frida simpered.

_… Rowan?_

Glancing from side to side – no one was paying her any attention – Vivianne crept the slightest bit closer.

“And honestly, she made things worse on herself, refusing to give that book to Rove,” Trish went on. “I mean, if she’d just done what he said, maybe Professor Yaxley wouldn’t have had to make sure she _actually_ got punished.”

“I do wish I had gotten a better look at that book, though,” Frida murmured.

Belle was staring at the pair of them, her jaw fallen, but James was the one who asked the question. “Since when did you two care about books?”

“Oh, ha-ha, James,” Frida snapped, tossing her head.

“You’d have wanted a better look at it if you’d seen it,” Trish added. “It was odd. Old – very old – and it didn’t even have a title on the cover. Just a funny little squiggle.”

“Sigil,” Frida corrected.

“Whatever.”

If Vivianne had been standing anywhere else, she would have gasped.

There was only one book they could be talking about.

“Besides, all of that was nothing compared to how she acted,” Frida went on, and after a split second of thought, Vivianne permitted it. For now. “She actually used a Shield Charm against me when I tried to Summon the book from her. That’s awfully aggressive, especially for her.”

“And she was positively nasty during the – well – fight,” Trish went on. “She knocked me down and tried to strangle Frida with a rug! And then she put both of us in a full body bind when that didn’t work!”

“That … does not sound like Rowan,” Belle replied, and even James had an eyebrow raised.

And Vivianne had heard enough.

_FLIPENDO!_ she thought, and aimed her wand squarely for the sofa Frida and Trish were sitting on.

It worked. The spell rocketed into the sofa, flipping it over and sending Frida and Trish spilling onto the ground. Trish shrieked, and Frida started swearing.

_EXPELLIARMUS!_ was Vivianne’s next spell, followed by a signature twitch of the wand Sybilla had taught her. Sybilla said it wouldn’t work in an actual fight, when your opponents were expecting it, but as a sneak attack …

It worked beautifully. Trish’s and Frida’s wands flew out of their possession (Frida’s in her hand, and Trish’s somewhere by her side) and into Vivianne’s waiting hand.

“What the hell?” yelped James, jumping up and dragging Belle with him. Vivianne wondered if he meant to be holding Belle in front of him, or if he just wasn’t coordinated enough to push her out of the line of fire. “Vivianne! What was—”

Vivianne pointed her wand at James’s chest. “Stay out of this. This is a Gorlois matter.”

“Vivianne!” Belle gasped. “What’s going on?”

“Cover my back,” was all Vivianne replied to Belle. “These two have gone far enough. I’m ending this _now_.”

Belle’s eyes were very wide, but slowly, shakily, she brought her wand out. “O-okay.”

“Belle!” James snapped.

“James, shut it before I shut it for you. Frida, Trish—up. Now.”

To punctuate the point, Vivianne jabbed her wand in their directions.

It took a couple of minutes, since Frida and Trish were half-trapped under the sofa, but they got up. Slowly. Frida’s eyes were smoldering, and Trish looked both shocked and frightened.

“What—what’s that about?” Trish asked. “We didn’t even _hurt_ her this time! If anything, she hurt us!”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Vivianne snapped. “I don’t care what you told Yaxley or even Rove. Whatever happened in that lounge, _you_ were the ones tossing the damaging spells. And if you _ever_ try another stunt like that on Rowan O’Blake, they’re not even going to find the pieces of you when I’m finished. Am I understood?”

“Why?” Trish wailed. “Why do you even care? You hate her!”

“And are you sure you can even follow through on that threat?” Frida asked, her eyes narrowed as she stared at Vivianne.

Vivianne ignored Frida. “I do not hate her,” Vivianne replied. “I don’t think I ever really did. But how I feel about her is beside the point. Rowan is a Gorlois – and Gorlois women protect their own.” Half a smirk started to play at her lips. “You found this out today, in fact.”

“What are you talking about?” Frida asked, actually daring to raise an eyebrow.

“The book,” Vivianne answered. “The book is a—valuable Gorlois possession. It was entrusted to Rowan by—by my grandmother.”

_And now, I finally see why._

Vivianne forced herself to take a deep breath, giving her time to notice Belle’s gasp and dropped jaw. Even James looked startled.

“And understand this, Frida, Trish,” Vivianne went on. “Even if everything you said about Rowan was true – the fact that you are still standing here and breathing means that she let you off easy. When—when someone tries to steal an artifact that the Gorloises have placed under their protection, they tend to end up one way.”

Vivianne pointed her wand at the ground and thought a quick spell – one that made the earth under their feet tremble. It wasn’t especially strong, especially since it was nonverbal, but Trish yelped and even Frida took a step back.

“Do I need to elaborate?” Vivianne asked.

Frida snarled, but Trish stared at Vivianne ashen-faced.

“Glad that’s clear,” Vivianne replied. “Now—”

“Why don’t you give me my wand back,” Frida interrupted, “and we’ll see who can actually leave the other one in pieces?”

Vivianne knew she was not imagining the gasps that came from around the common room. Even Trish stared wide-eyed at Frida and moved slightly away from her.

As for Vivianne, she pretended to think about that. She really did. But her response was a foregone conclusion. “No, Frida. I really don’t think I’ll be doing that.”

“And why not? You afraid, Your Majesty?”

“ _Oooh_ ,” came the cry from more than one corner of the common room.

Vivianne raised an eyebrow. “It depends on what you mean by ‘afraid.’ Am I afraid you would beat me in a fair fight? Merlin, no. You have a great deal of … how shall I put this … brute strength, but you have no cunning and no finesse. While you tried to hit me with every disastrous spell you knew, all it would take would be a few clever moves from yours truly to disarm and disable you. It would barely take any time at all.”

Vivianne shrugged.

“However,” she went on, “we both know what the fight wouldn’t be fair, don’t we? On both of our sides, mind. The truth of the matter, Frida, is that you are a vicious little bitch, and you will do whatever it takes to hurt your opponent – no matter how stupid or futile it might be.”

She smirked. “I believe you’re a bit like your old man in that.”

“Why you—” Frida shouted, leaping forward.

That was the opening Vivianne had been waiting for. Another nonverbal _FLIPENDO!_ and Frida went flying halfway across the room.

She crashed into a sofa, not a wall. Vivianne wasn’t that cruel. But Frida still fell to the ground in a heap, moaning.

“However, understand this,” Vivianne went on, stepping closer. “Even the Dark Lord didn’t dare to try to move against the Gorlois women united as one. Do you know why?”

“You were,” Frida wheezed, “you were on _our_ side—”

“Oh, no,” Vivianne shook her head. “Not at all. We might have pretended to be, because we’re not averse to living peacefully and avoiding attracting trouble, but when push comes to shove … Gorlois women pick the _winning_ side. And if our side doesn’t appear to be winning, we make up the deficit ourselves. One way or another. And the Dark Lord knew that much.

“But all the same …” Vivianne pretended to sigh. “I’m disposed to be merciful, honestly.”

“ _Merciful_?” Frida panted.

“Yes. So long as you leave every Gorlois woman in this school alone – _and that includes Rowan_ – Professor Yaxley will never have to know what book you tried to steal.”

“And—what makes you think—”

“Frida, I have known Professor Yaxley since I was too young to technically know anyone,” Vivianne interrupted. “She’s not a Gorlois woman, but she wishes she was. And she’s not stupid. Rather than have the entire clan turn against her, she’ll do whatever is necessary to keep you away from that book. And think about it. How long do you think that you would last in this school if Professor Yaxley stopped protecting you? I’d give you a week before you did something stupid enough to get expelled.”

Frida’s eyes smoldered. “Well, maybe I won’t come back after the Christmas holiday,” she spat. “I’m almost of age. What the hell do I still need to be in school for?”

Vivianne shrugged. “Fine by me. I doubt anyone here would miss you.”

Frida’s hands were shaking. But as she looked around the common room, she saw what Vivianne had known she would see, eventually.

She had no allies. Not even Trish. Frida had been responsible for the house losing too many points. And Vivianne suspected that there were more than a few Slytherins who thought the same way that Belle did: even in pursuit of house pride and blood pride, there were some things you simply didn’t do.

Besides, at the end of the day, rats weren’t the only ones to desert a sinking ship.

Frida’s eyes dropped.

Vivianne smirked. “James—take her wand for me, will you? You can hold onto until she’s calmed down enough not to do something stupid with it.”

“Vivianne,” James replied, “I will not—I will not get into the middle of this! You broke about a dozen school rules, and—and if Professor Yaxley would do a damn thing about it, I’d be dragging you to her! I am _not_ getting involved!”

“James!” Belle scolded.

“No! I’m—”

“Then I’ll do it,” came a voice from behind Vivianne, “if you’re too chicken, James.”

Vivianne wasn’t at all surprised when she turned around and saw Claudia standing at the entrance of the common room, flanked by Sybilla and Niketa.

Vivianne smirked. “Thank you, Claudia.” She floated Frida’s wand over to her, and Claudia caught it easily. Putting a few inferences together very quickly, she asked, “And how is my cousin?”

Vivianne wasn’t imagining the few stray gasps that rang through the common room.

But Claudia frowned, as did Niketa, and even Sybilla looked a little sour. “She was awfully upset. Not about the fight,” Claudia snorted in Frida’s general direction, “but about being kicked out of Professor Yaxley’s class.”

“Which is rather foolish, really,” Sybilla deadpanned. “She’s hardly stupid. She’ll probably learn twice as much about potions outside of the class than in it.”

Claudia rolled her eyes but didn’t dignify that with a response. “So—all in all, not good, Vivianne.”

Vivianne hesitated, wondering if she ought to have a word with Professor Yaxley …

_No,_ she decided. She would have enough of a job ahead of her getting Professor Yaxley to turn on Frida, if that was necessary. She’d probably have to resort to blackmail, and that would mean burning several bridges with her head of house. Best to not burn them before she’d need them.

Besides, Sybilla was right. Rowan would probably learn more outside the class than in it.

“Well—if you see her before I do—tell her that I … appreciated the actions she took to defend the Gorloises,” Vivianne said delicately. She wasn’t imagining the way Niketa’s eyes went wide or how Claudia’s eyebrows went up. “And if she should find herself bothered by any … particularly ugly little toads …”

Vivianne turned to Frida with a smirk. Frida scowled.

“Tell her to come to me,” Vivianne finished. “I’ll take care of it.”

And Claudia grinned. “I think she might believe it a bit more coming out of you, Vivianne—but trust me, if I see Rowan before you do, I’ll definitely let her know.”

“Excellent,” Vivianne replied.

Then, without a further word, she turned and headed down the corridor leading to the girls’ dorms, taking down that blasted mistletoe as she went.

Victory was sweet.


	41. Chapter 40: ATTACK of the Two-Headed Chicken from Outer Space

**Chapter 40: ATTACK of the Two-Headed Chicken from Outer Space**

“Heard anything?” Spencer asked as Zach slid into his seat at the Hufflepuff table right as breakfast was starting. Zach nodded, but he was pretty sure that his sigh would tell Spencer what his news was.

“Oh, c’mon, really? Even Rove won’t do anything?” Spencer shook his head.

“She wouldn’t give him the book. He said that he can ‘understand’ why Professor Yaxley is unwilling to give someone who so obviously flaunts the rules a second chance.” Zach poked at his eggs with his toast.

“Wow.” Spencer shook his head again. “Flitwick set up the independent study for Geoff. He could do that for Rowan. I bet there’s even members of the board of governors who would back him doing it if Rove won’t.”

“Do you think Flitwick would go over Rove’s head?” Titan asked.

“I think Flitwick is just about done with Rove,” Juliette said. “I mean, granted, it’s rumors, but it’s pretty much all over the school that the _only_ reason Flitwick’s still here is because if Umbridge, Dumbledore’s death, and the Carrows didn’t drive him out, he would be damned if Rove would. There’s others that even though Flitwick doesn’t want to be headmaster, he might challenge Rove for it, just to get him out of the seat.”

“Wow, you get much better rumors than I do. I hadn’t heard half of that,” Zach commented before applying himself to his breakfast.

“That’s because you’re a nice person with a history of having little patience for gossip.” Juliette poked him. “So they know you don’t have any of the good stuff. You pretty much need to trade in kind.”

“So what form of currency are you trading off to get ‘the good stuff’?” Spencer asked.

“Oh, something about the nasty little surprise that Dara got this morning when she tried to sneak into the other first-year girls’ dorm with a bucket of water for Miri.” Juliette shot Spencer a hard look.

“You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” she asked.

“Not a thing,” Spencer told her. Juliette’s face went flat. “All I know is that I didn’t want to know.”

“Will it happen again?” Juliette asked.

“Possibly. More than likely though, well, the—person who might have left that little surprise is rather fond of the quote about the definition of insanity being doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. I would imagine if Dara did it again, something more than a Jelly Legs will accompany it,” Spencer told her.

“So—you’re not actually responsible for this?” Juliette’s eyes twitched back and forth between Spencer and Dara.

“Not—precisely. I set up the circumstances, but my wand is clean in the casting.”

Juliette’s eyes flew wide, and she looked over at the Slytherin table so fast her hair flew over the table and smacked Zach and Spencer both.

“You let a _Slytherin_ into the common room?” Juliette whispered.

“If it gets Dara to leave Miri alone, does it matter?” Spencer asked, his eyebrow arching.

Juliette frowned at him, then finally sighed. “I guess what Shae says is true: lie down with snakes, get up with scales.”

Spencer’s grin was sunny, yet somehow unrepentant all the same.

“Bucket of water?” It had finally sunk in enough to click.

“Yeah, apparently somewhere she came up with the brilliant idea of dumping a bucket of water into Miri’s bed. And instead ended up with it all over herself when her legs went wonky. So sad.” Juliette rolled her eyes.

“I know our house tends to end up with the ‘don’t fit anywhere else’ kids, but how, exactly, did Dara not end up in Slytherin?”

“Sorting Hat only knows.” Juliette delicately sprinkled her French toast with powdered sugar. Zach applied himself to his eggs and toast, getting mostly done before the beating of wings indicating post arrived. Zach wasn’t particularly surprised to see nothing arrive for him or Spencer – but Juliette did get the _Prophet_.

“Whoa,” Juliette said, her brown eyes widening as she looked at the front page.

“What?” Zach, Spencer, and Trevor asked.

For her part, Juliette flipped the paper around and it showed a tall man walking into the Ministry accompanied by several Hit Wizards. It was impossible to tell if they were arresting him or playing bodyguard to him, at least by the body language of the man.

The screamer headline, _Victor Yaxley Questioned in Gorlois Matriarch’s Death_ , caught Zach’s breath right in his chest.

After having given them just enough time to gasp and begin to process, Juliette flipped the paper around and thankfully began to read aloud.

“Victor Yaxley, a former Ministry official commonly held to have been forcibly retired for too many ties to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s puppet regime during the Second Wizarding War, was called in for questioning today. Yaxley is the younger and only brother of former Gorlois matriarch Igraine Vivianne, who died last month under suspicious circumstances. Her death was originally categorized as a heart attack, though sources indicate that many of the Gorlois clan members scoffed at the idea from the very start.

“It was later re-categorized as a homicide, with little fanfare out of the Auror and Hit Wizard offices besides a small press release that came with the longer one issued by the Gorlois family itself. Solicitor Dindrane Rowena Gorlois, acting in place of proto-Matriarch Vivianne Morgaine, has been most cooperative with both the press and Ministry in the effort to find the former matriarch’s killer.

“The younger Miss Gorlois, currently a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, will not formally take her place as Matriarch until she comes of age in March of next year. According to this writer’s sources, the Coming of Age party will rival none other.”

“Seriously, they’re actually talking about Vivianne’s Coming of Age party in an article about how her great-uncle might have murdered her grandmother?”

“Sure,” Titan interjected. “When you don’t have enough pertinent facts, you pad them.” Zach’s eyebrow arched upward. “It’s not exactly classy, but most publications do it. Better to babble on about the various roles in the family, the fact that Vivianne’s solicitor is gay, and Vivianne’s coming of age party than have a short article for the front page.”

“Wait, where did Vivianne’s solicitor being gay come into this?” Spencer asked.

“I was reading off Bethany’s copy.” Titan jerked his head at the girl sitting next to him. “The _Prophet_ is nearly as bad as the gossip rags about it, actually.”

“Oh, right, your mum works for—uh …” Spencer bit his lip.

“ _Witch Weekly_. But she used to work for the _Prophet_. Just she—as a lowly Muggle-born—didn’t have the contacts to get promoted beyond entry level.” Titan shrugged. “And watching twats like Rita Skeeter prance around muckraking didn’t make things any better for her.”

“I’m going to pretend that was ‘twits,’ but don’t let me hear that word again.” Juliette quirked an eyebrow at Titan before sticking her nose back in her paper.

“Do they have any substance at all?” Zach asked, looking at Vivianne, who was clearly in straight-up Queen of Slytherin mode as Belle read the paper to her and Sybilla.

“Hmmm. Suspicious. Long-standing feud. Might have come to a head because of Igraine’s influence over Vivianne,” Juliette muttered as she scanned. “Pfft. No.”

* * *

When Spencer and Zach met up with Quill and Jon for Potions, it was easy to tell that something was afoot; to say that the two Ravenclaw boys looked like the cat that had gotten both the canary and the cream would be an understatement.

“We’re in for trouble, aren’t we?” Spencer asked, hefting his books a little further onto his shoulder.

“Trouble?” Jon looked at Quill. “Whyever would you believe we would cause _trouble_?”

“Because Rowan is like a little sister to the both of you, she got kicked out of a class, and this is that class – whyever wouldn’t I believe you’d cause trouble?” Spencer pointed out.

“He’s been spending too much time with Sybilla,” Jon whispered.

Zach shook his head but pushed open the door to the dungeon. Yaxley sat at her desk, a mirror hovering in the air as she carefully _re_ applied her eye make-up, a copy of the _Prophet_ shoved off the end – wadded up  and looking burnt in a couple of places. There was also an anonymous metal flask sitting prominently on the desk.

Given what Vivianne had said, it was probably full of firewhisky. Or – looking at Yaxley, who was all but wearing widow’s weeds – maybe a little more than half-full, but it had started the day as full.

Zach took his seat next to Jon, who was looking at the empty seat between their table and Quill at the next one – Rowan’s seat.

“All right, please open your texts to—” Yaxley blinked at her notes. “Page 117. And Mr. Diaz, you will need to find another lab partner.”

“Yes, professor.”

Yaxley scowled slightly as Quill moved to the seat next to Spencer, who had been without a lab partner since the beginning of the year, due to the class having an odd number of students.

“Now,” she paused to dab at her eyes with a handkerchief, one that Zach noticed was embroidered with an elaborate monogram that didn’t fit Yaxley or – well – Rowan said that Yaxley was _married_. But that didn’t look like a double G, either. That’s what his monogram would be, right? Gregory Goyle.

Would Professor Yaxley have another man’s handkerchief and use it? Right there? In class, in front of everyone?

As Zach thought about more of what Vivianne had said, the answer was more than likely, “Yes, yes, she would.”

“We’ll be working on …” She paused and looked out over the class. “Would you kindly stop staring at that empty chair, Mr. McIntosh.”

“I’m not, Professor,” Jon said it almost contritely.

“What? No yelling, cursing, disrupting my class?”

“No, ma’am!” Jon said. “I wouldn’t cause a disruption. I know better now; I had best be on my best behavior if I don’t want to get kicked out of class, too.”

“It was more complicated than that, as you should know.” Yaxley took a long swig from her flask.

“Still, ma’am. I don’t want _my_ career plans destroyed and my future in doubt.” Jon put his hand to his chest in injured innocence. “I need good Potions grades to get into cooking school, just like—well—” he jerked his head at the empty seat. “But that’s water under the _bridge_ and all I can do is—cover my rear, ma’am.”

Yaxley took a deep breath and glared at Jon before turning back to her notes. Class continued, but the looks Yaxley was throwing at Jon became more frequent as it progressed. Finally she sat down and pulled a small vial out of her drawer, tossing it back before sitting quietly for a long moment – never mind that they were all right in the middle of their potions and were waiting for the next set of instructions. In fact little “poofs” dotted the classroom as the potions failed one after the other.

“What are you doing?” she asked as the students looked at her over now-smoldering cauldrons.

“You stopped somewhere in the middle of instruction, Professor,” Geoffrey informed her.

“Oh, Merlin’s knickers. Well, why didn’t you continue on?” The class shared a series of little glances.

“All right, all right, vanish that mess and we’ll start over.” Yaxley scowled. “Mr. McIntosh!”

“Professor Yaxley?”

“She is not a martyr, you know.” Jon looked at Zach, who shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the big sad eyes all through class. It doesn’t work for—someone else I have _maybe_ more reason to accept them out of.” Yaxley rubbed her temples. “She should have to live with the consequences of her actions.”

“Like your father, huh?” Quill muttered.

“ _Mr. Diaz!_ That was completely uncalled for!” Yaxley gasped as the class went, “ _Oooh_.”

“And completely—un—uh. That’s different! My father has done nothing wrong! And the—the _Prophet_ is just—being sensationalist.”

“Right—like they were when they pointed out how close your father was to his cousin—who killed your uncle, right?” If looks could burn, both Quill and Yaxley would have been flaming. “Yeah, it’s completely out of character to believe that your father would have anything to do with the death of his sister, when he fully supported the death of her husband.” Quill shook his head. “Hey, I understand; my uncle killed my mom, too. That doesn’t mean I don’t acknowledge it, though.”

“I think there is a major difference.”

“Yeah, my mom fell in love with someone inappropriate. Your uncle was trying to do his job, to save the life of the Minister of Magic.” Quill poured powdered lavender into his cauldron. “Which is also very different than shielding yourself from spells thrown at you by someone you _know_ would feel little to no guilt over hurting or even killing you.”

“You are out of line, Mr. Diaz! Do you also want to be removed from this class?”

“Quite frankly? I don’t give a damn,” Quill said. “If you want to cement your reputation as a loose cannon, you wanna call Flitwick and Rove down here and explain why you’re kicking me out with a flask of booze on your desk and Sober-Up Serum on your breath? Go ahead. Kick me out.”

* * *

After breakfast, Rowan should have been in Potions class … but she wasn’t. It was hard not to feel down about that. And it was hard to know what, exactly, she should do with this sudden chunk of free time on her hands.

She ended up going to the library. It was far away from the dungeons, and it wasn’t as risky as sitting by herself in a study lounge. And everyone in the library was likely to be busy with their homework and projects and studying. She wouldn’t get the odd looks and then the comprehending looks and the whispers and the pity she’d find in Ravenclaw Tower.

All the same, she made sure to sit close to Madam Pince’s circulation desk, just in case Trish and Frida were in fact stupid enough to crow over their victory or try to start something right under Madam Pince’s gaze. She’d have them shoveling Blast-Ended Skrewt dung under Professor Lipskit’s irascible eye before they could say “detention.”

Rowan took a seat, but she didn’t take her books out. Not even _the_ book, which was still invisible and hadn’t left her bag since yesterday. She took out an envelope instead.

Darwin had flown in with it this morning. That was probably the best thing about her mum being so close. Rowan almost never had to wait long for a response when she wrote to her. Sometimes Darwin would even bring the return letter to her that same evening.

Maybe Rowan should have read it during breakfast, but with the leak about Victor Yaxley – Rowan remembered him from the funeral, a tall, dark-haired man who had looked at her like one would look at a beetle crushed by one’s shoe – and everyone whispering about that, she hadn’t felt up to it.

Besides, maybe this would cheer her up, or give her some clue about what she should do next. Like writing her dad. She hadn’t tried to tame that particular hippogriff just yet.

Taking a deep breath and rolling her shoulders, Rowan popped the seal and slowly drew out the letter.

_Rowan sweet,_

_I’ve been staring at this parchment ever since I got your letter. I wish I knew what to tell you to make it better. What that_ [there were several scratched-out words that Rowan couldn’t make out and didn’t want to try] _woman did to you was wrong. She has no right. I don’t care what you did to the other two, although I know damn well you didn’t do anything wrong. She has no right to damage your prospects like this. She just doesn’t._

_And if I thought it would make it better, I’d already be up at that castle and turning her into a jackass and not turning her back until she bloody well learned her lesson. Which might be never._

_But that’s not going to help you now. So, don’t worry, you’re not going to be reading “Auror Assaults Hogwarts Teacher (Who Bloody Well Deserved It)” in the Prophet tomorrow. Or, well, today by the time you get this. I’m not going to make this worse on you._

_Let me see what I can do to help._

_First – the book. The Gorlois in me (Merlin, I didn’t know I still had one of those) wants to say do not give Rove the book—but you know what? If he tries to make your life miserable for it, give him the book. As soon as I finish this letter, I’m going to write to Aunt Dindrane and let her know what’s up. If he takes the book, write to me, and I’ll have her send a nasty letter to get him to give it back to you. I met Rove a few times in the Ministry. A nasty letter on legal letterhead is just the thing to get him to sit up and bark on command._

_I’m not sure how much sense that last sentence made, but you know what I mean._

_Of course if you can get away with not giving him the book, don’t – but don’t think you have to be miserable at school because of whatever “responsibility” my mother saddled you with. She was a bloody Gorlois. She’d understand the wisdom of taking the path of least resistance and letting future events prove you to be in the right._

_Next – Potions class._

_Rowan, sweet, I don’t know if I ever told you this, but I didn’t take Potions class when I was your age. I needed the NEWT for Auror training, but I wasn’t good enough to qualify for the class. Snape was teaching it in those days, and_ [there were many more scratched-out words Rowan couldn’t read].

_Sorry, got a bit off track. Anyway. He would only let students who got an O on the OWL into his NEWT class. Well, I didn’t manage that, and I thought that would be the end of my Auror dreams._

_But as you can probably guess, it wasn’t. It was actually my mother who figured a way out of it. She told me that a Gorlois woman doesn’t give up, especially not when faced with something as trivial as a stubborn professor. She told me if I really wanted to be an Auror, I’d be facing a lot worse obstacles than Snape. Now was as good a time as any to start figuring out how I was going to deal with them._

_She looked up the rules, and she found out that you didn’t have to actually take a NEWT-level class to sit for the test. She was the one who made me write to Professor McGonagall and ask if there was a way I could do an independent study to prepare for the Potions NEWT. And every time she wrote to me for the next two years, she asked me how my lessons were going._

_Have I ever mentioned she was rubbish at Potions? Probably not. Well, she was. And yet somehow, she – and Professor McGonagall – got me through those two years. I got my E on the Potions NEWT and never looked back._

_I know you mentioned that your friend Spencer would tutor you. Well, I say, do it, Rowan! If I could study for an E, you’ll get an O without even breaking a sweat. I can even help! Unlike my mother, I actually know the difference between a Sleeping Draught and Draught of the Living Death._

_You can do this. Even without that_ [still more scratched-out words] _old bat. Hell, you’ll probably do even better without her trying to take points off every time you sneeze. I know I did when I no longer had to worry about Snape._

_All right, so that’s done and dusted … now let’s get on to the Erumpet in the room. Your dad._

_Yes, he’s going to blow this out of proportion._

_Yes, he’s going to bring up leaving Hogwarts again._

_Yes, it’s going to be harder to talk him out of it this time._

_But I think, honestly, what’s going to be most important here is convincing him that you know what you’re doing. He still thinks of you as his little girl, you know, and I know Muggle kids don’t come of age until they’re 18, so there’s that to consider. I think, if ~~you~~ we can show him that you can still do what you want to do, at Hogwarts even, Yaxley be damned, we’ll keep him from getting too upset._

_Which brings me to my suggestion. Sweet, I know you’re feeling torn about where you want to spend the holiday. I know you don’t want to leave your dad alone, and Merlin knows I can’t argue with you wanting to spend Christmas with me. I don’t think you should have to worry about the stress of that on top of, well, everything else._

_So that being said – do you want to maybe meet in Hagrid’s hut the day you’re supposed to leave? I’m sure I can fix it up with Hagrid and Professor Flitwick, and it’s a Saturday, so I’ll be off work. (One of the benefits of seniority.) We can talk it over then, and you can make your decision. If you decide to go home with me, we can walk through the village to my house. And if you do decide to go home to your dad, we can talk about how you can put him off trying to transfer you into Muggle school, at least until the three of us can get together and have a proper argument about it._

_I know you’re probably wincing as you read this, but you know that’s what it will come down to, sweet._

_Anyway, think about it and let me know. I’ll be waiting for Darwin to come rapping on my window with your answer._

_Remember, you’ve not even got a fortnight until you come home! You can stay strong until then, I know you can. And I’ll be waiting for you with a big hug when we meet at Hagrid’s, if that’s what you decide to do. Hell, I’ll wait for you at your dad’s flat with a big hug if you decide to go home to him. Merlin knows you need one._

_Love and kisses, Rowan. You know I’m thinking about you._

_Love,_

_Mum_

Coming to the end of the letter, Rowan sat back.

She … hadn’t known that her mother hadn’t taken Potions when she was her age. And she wondered, honestly, what the late Professor Snape had been thinking. Requiring an O to get into the NEWT class? He must have had barely any students for his classes!

… Maybe that was the point …

Rowan shook her head and glanced back at the letter. If her mum had done it … then maybe Rowan could do it too …

And as far as the holiday was concerned – maybe talking to her mum would be a good idea. It would be nice to talk to someone who wasn’t just in her own head. And maybe …

Maybe a few early hugs from her mum wouldn’t be a bad thing after all.

Rowan quickly scribbled a note – not a full reply – to her mother, confirming meeting at Hagrid’s if she could get permission for it. As long as Hagrid and Professor Flitwick didn’t think they needed to alert Professor Rove, they could probably manage it.

She put the note into an envelope and stuck it in her bag. She’d give it to Darwin tonight, when she gave him the letter to her dad, once she wrote it. He could make a quick stop in Hogsmeade, drop off the note to her mum, and then fly off to London.

Rowan took a deep breath, rolled her shoulders, and took her Charms textbook out of her bag.

At least, while she had this time, she could get some more studying done.

She managed to spend the rest of the period studying. When the bell rang for the change of classes, Rowan packed everything up and headed to Charms.

Maybe it was because she was heading there from the opposite direction, but somehow – it was just her luck – she heard Slytherins’ voices behind her. There was Antony Quince’s braying laugh, Blake Skinner snickering about something—

Rowan started walking faster. Claudia might have been on her side, but she wouldn’t lay odds on even Claudia being able to go toe-to-toe with three-quarters of her house and year—

“You know,” said a detached, ironic voice from Rowan’s left, “it’s not a race, Rowan. We’re all going to make it to Charms without you having to go at a flat-out run.”

Rowan turned, jaw dropped, to see Sybilla walking next to her.

It was one thing to tolerate her when they were in the same room with Spencer and Zach, but this—

“Hello, Rowan,” said a voice from Rowan’s right. Rowan turned, not quite believing her ears, to see that they were telling the truth.

Belle Deveraux was walking on her other side. And she was— _smiling_? It was even a sympathetic smile, if Rowan dared to call it that.

“How are you?” Belle went on. “I mean, after yesterday. Frida and Trish—well, we heard what they did. And—I was worried about you. Even though Claudia and Sybilla said you were all right … you know?”

Rowan blinked several times, having no idea what to say in reply to that.

“You’ll be fine, you know.” Another voice from her left. One that was even more surprising.

Slowly, Rowan turned – looked up – and there she was.

Vivianne. In the flesh. Standing between her and Sybilla.

“And,” Vivianne went on, as if they were having a normal conversation and Rowan wasn’t wondering if someone had slipped a Hallucination Draught into her tea at breakfast, “you aren’t to worry about Frida and Trish anymore. I made it _very_ clear what would happen to them if they dared to annoy another Gorlois woman at Hogwarts.”

As if there was any doubt about what she meant, Vivianne tossed her wand into the air like a baton and caught it effortlessly.

“Relax, Rowan,” said Claudia, from Rowan’s right – on the other side of Belle, as it happened. “They come in peace. Honest.”

Rowan looked down the line, but try as she might, she couldn’t find a reason to disbelieve Claudia’s words.

She had to say something, so she stammered out the first thing that came to mind. “H-h-hi.”

Vivianne _tsked_ faintly and shook her head. “Articulation, Rowan – we shall have to work on that.”

“Vivianne. Be _nice_ ,” said Belle. She shot another smile at Rowan. “So—I don’t think you ever said, Rowan. What kind of music do you like to listen to?”

It was only the faintly amused smile that Claudia had that gave Rowan the wherewithal to reply. As it was, at least three Muggle artists came to mind before she could think of a good wizarding band. “I r-r-really l-l-like G-Goldie and the S-S-S-Snitches.”

Belle’s eyes went wide. “Really? They’re my favorite band!”

“They are,” Sybilla confirmed. “I can sing all the songs off their last album. Not that I would, mind – and certainly not in public – but if I did, you would find that my memory of the lyrics is not at all faulty.”

“Her singing ability, however …” Vivianne sighed and shook her head. “The less said about that, the better.”

“Hear, hear,” said Sybilla.

“And unfortunately even I can’t argue with that,” Belle added. “So what did you think of ‘Unbreakable Vow’?”

“The s-s-song or the album?”

“Both! But the song, to start.”

“I r-r-really liked the s-s-song. G-Goldie has s-s-such a – _p-powerful_ v-v-voice – and the whole album was r-r-really g-g-good, t-t-too. But—um—my f-favorite s-song is actually ‘Ch-Chasing S-S-Snitches’ …”

Even though part of Rowan’s mind refused to believe it, she managed to make it all the way to Charms dissecting _Unbreakable Vow_ with Belle. It even managed to be a nice conversation. They agreed on more points than they disagreed on, and before today, Rowan wouldn’t have thought that was possible.

When they finally got to the classroom, they said goodbye pleasantly enough, and Rowan walked in a daze to where Quill and Jon were sitting.

“What was that?” asked Quill, not mincing words as always.

Rowan simply shook her head. “How w-w-was—c-c-class?”

Somewhat to her surprise, both Jon and Quill grinned.

“Oh, class was great,” Jon said.

“Definitely. We managed to get our licks in.” Quill’s smile was almost feral. “I even managed to call you-know-who a lush and out her cousin as a murderer without getting kicked out forever. So honestly? Probably the best class we’ve ever had.”

“But it would have been better if you were there, honey-bear,” Jon added.

Rowan shot him a wan smile and shrugged.

Right now, there didn’t seem to be anything else she could do.

* * *

“Let’s just hope that no one asks _how_ we got detention with Hagrid,” Booker sighed.

“Relax, Book, we aren’t doing anything wrong. There are absolutely no school rules against this,” Kenny said, looking for all the world like _that_ Kenny with his orange parka, hood up and cinched around his face.

“There weren’t any rules against running Rove’s pants up the flagstaff either,” Booker said. “But we still got in trouble for it.”

“Yes, yes, as you warned us we would. Less talky, more worky.” Ben poked him. Booker shook his head.

“You know, when we last did one of these, I didn’t have a girlfriend I wanted to be able to spend time with.” Booker poked at the material in front of him with his wand. “Nor do I have the kind of girl who’d get herself into detention to spend it with me.”

“Hey, there are no guarantees that that’s what Carrie and Donna did,” Ringo protested. “No, Ken, that needs to move about four inches to the right.”

“Ugh!” Kenny muttered.

“Quit whining, I’ll help.” There was a serious _South Park_ moment going on over there as Ringo in his cap – turquoise with yellow trim and a yellow pompom – and fluffy red down jacket bent down to pick up the beam.

“This is the Christmas prank everyone—bar Yaxley and Rove—has been waiting for. We can’t just not do one—our school is depending on us,” Cameron reminded Booker.

Booker held up an oversized marshmallow with a quirked brow. “Depending on this?”

“Why not depending on this?” Ben asked. “C’mon, Book, Rowan’s no likelier to hit up detention to be with me; she’s got detention with Pince this week. But you don’t see me complaining.”

“How’s she doing?” Kenny asked. “If I didn’t need that Potions NEWT, I would so have photocopied my arse and re-wallpapered Yaxley’s office with the pictures at the start of the year.”

“Couldn’t be any worse than the wallpaper she’s got,” Cameron muttered. “That pink and green stripe. And those godawful cabbage roses. I don’t care if they are hand painted.”

“Oh, but could you have imagined? ‘You covered my enchanted window. You know that view is the exact view I have from my bedroom at my house in the Riviera! However could you?’” Ringo forced his voice into an overly sincere falsetto.

“You know, I don’t get that,” Kenny said, looking at Ringo seriously for a long minute. “Professor Yaxley’s family has some bucks—a house on the Riviera, holidays on the Continent, all that ‘designer’ clothing. Why the fuck is she a professor anyway? Wouldn’t she be happier living on the beach, paying men with Ben’s musculature in tight speedos to pour her drinks that come with tiny umbrellas?”

“Ten bucks says because nobody takes her seriously.” Ben shook his head. “There are a lot of things I wouldn’t trust C. Madeline on any further than I could throw Hogwarts—but social standing isn’t one of them. Money doesn’t grant you respect. And between Brutus Yaxley the Death Eater and Victor Yaxley being run out of the Ministry because he was under suspicion of collusion …? Being a Yaxley doesn’t come with a whole lot of social coin.”

“Didn’t you say she’s married?”

“So Ben says Rowan says – but being a Goyle, if anything, is worse. There isn’t enough gold in Gringotts to buy a Goyle a good name,” Cameron said. “My mum says the Goyles are completely batshit. She was invited to the christening of Goyle’s cousin’s son. Roux? I think that was the name. The forest outside their house is fucking _freaky_. My mum’s not easily unnerved, but she said there are ropes— _ropes_ , grown into the trees on the Goyle side of the valley where they used to hang Muggles—or house-elves. The stories vary.”

“Oh my God,” Kenny said, pausing for a moment, the flame coming from his wand like a blowtorch melting the snow around him. “Are you fucking serious?”

“I wish I weren’t.” Cameron shook his head.

“Ugh! Okay, does anyone know _why_ Yaxley married him, then?”

“My money is on ‘she’s batshit too.’” Ben shook his head and went back to spot welding material together.

“That, sir, is an insult to bats—and shit.” Ringo shook his head as they all laughed.

* * *

Given how early it got dark at this time of year, it wasn’t rare at all to for students to get letters delivered via an evening post. Vivianne still frowned when Lamorak came in for a landing. Just because he was delivering a letter now didn’t mean that her mother had absent-mindedly forgotten to send it at a reasonable time. She could have sent it the day before and it might have taken two evenings for Lamorak to fly to her. It _was_ a long flight between Cornwall and Scotland, longer in rotten weather.

Still, Vivianne spirited the letter into her bag as soon as it arrived. After dinner was over, she moved with the rest of the Slytherins toward the common room, but broke off once they were deep enough into the dungeons to find an empty classroom.

After today’s _Prophet_ article, she sensed she wouldn’t want an audience for this.

The first thing Vivianne did after she fished the letter out of her bag and popped the seal was check the date. And sigh with relief. The letter was dated the day before, before the article – and knowing her mother, before Josie even heard that “dear Uncle Victor” was being questioned. If Vivianne knew Great-Aunt Dindrane, she wouldn’t tell Josie anything until it was absolutely necessary.

Hell, Josie still might not know if Great-Aunt Dindrane hadn’t told her. Was anyone at home even subscribing to the _Prophet_ anymore?

Shaking her head, Vivianne forced herself to read now, worry later. At least the letter was short – barely more than a note.

_Vivi darling,_

_I have the BEST news!_

“Definitely not about Uncle Victor, then,” Vivianne muttered to herself as she continued to read.

_You remember me talking about Dionysus Belby, right? The son of the famous Potioneer? I’m sure you remember me writing about our—friendship. Well, we’re a bit more than friends right now, and I have such amazing news I can’t wait to share it._

_HE’S TAKING US TO PARIS FOR CHRISTMAS!_

Vivianne stared at the letter. _What?_

_Yes, you read that right – PARIS! For Christmas! Oh, you know how much I’ve always wanted to spend Christmas in Paris, and Mother—well, never mind that now. But Dio (my nickname for him – it means “God” in Italian and just tickles him pink!) said he’d take us, and I think that will be so much better than moping around that gloomy castle and missing Mother. Let’s do something fresh and new for Christmas! I know Mother wouldn’t mind at all. She’d want us to be happy!_

_And yes, I said us! I told Dio I wouldn’t dream of leaving you behind, and he didn’t have a problem with that – at least, not after I told him you were sixteen and practically grown up and would doubtless want to explore the city on your own. And you will, won’t you? I mean—Dio and I will want some alone time—so I’m sure you can do some shopping or something. You’re a smart girl, you’ll find a way to keep yourself entertained!_

_But don’t think I’ve forgotten our Christmas project! We are going to find you the best dress robes for your party, straight from Paris! A la mode Parisienne, indeed!_

_~~And~~ _

_Never mind that, Vivi darling, unfortunately I have to finish this quickly. Ettie just came to tell me that Aunt Dindrane is at the Floo and wants to talk to me. I do hope she’s not canceling the trip on us. She said she got everything fixed with the Aurors so you and I can go._

_Anyway. I have to run, so I’ll just finish this up and give it to Lamorak so he can get it to you as fast as he can fly. I expect him to tire himself out!_

_Oh, I hope you’re half as excited as I am, Vivi! Just imagine. Christmas in Paris!_

_Can’t wait to see you!_

_Love and kisses,_

_Mum XO_

Vivianne stared at the letter for quite a minute after finishing it. Her jaw fell.

Then she leaned forward, head in her hands, trying to make sense of it all.

How had Great-Aunt Dindrane – no, that was the wrong question to ask. Of _course_ she’d do everything in her power to get Josie out of the country, especially if Uncle Victor was under suspicion. The only thing her mother could do would be to muck up the investigation. Getting her out of the country would be best for everyone.

Hell, even the Aurors could probably see that.

But Vivianne? What had _Vivianne_ done to be banished to Paris when things were finally happening, when the Gorlois family needed someone on the ground? Why would Great-Aunt Dindrane betray her like that?

“You know,” came a voice from the door, “I should probably tell you—” The teasing tone stopped, replaced by a concerned one. “Vivianne, are you all right?”

Vivianne looked up.

Zach was framed in the doorway, brows knit together, not even trying to hide the frown.

All the same, Vivianne forced a smile. “You know,” she said lightly, “I rather thought we were past the point in our relationship where you have to hunt me down because I’m upset and … hiding.”

Zach wasn’t fooled. He strode into the room, taking a seat next to Vivianne. He didn’t move to touch her – not until Vivianne leaned a fraction of an inch in his direction. Then he was quick to put an arm around her, kiss the top of her head, and pull her close.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Vivianne sighed. She opened her mouth—

And thought of how this would sound, especially after what Zach’s father had pulled, and on his birthday, no less. No – worse – late for his birthday.

She closed her eyes and nuzzled against Zach’s shoulder.

“Vivianne?” he asked.

She rethought. She regrouped.

“All right,” she replied, “but before I say anything – you have to promise you’ll keep in mind that most of the reason why I’m upset is because—well—because of my grandmother—and … all of that.”

Vivianne let her eyes crack open just the smallest bit and watched Zach through her lashes.

Thank Merlin Zach was so easy to read. He was biting his lip, but he murmured, softly, “Okay …”

Vivianne took another deep breath. “My mother wants me to go with her on a trip this Christmas. Out of the country. To Paris – but that’s hardly important, really.”

She continued to watch. At first Zach looked puzzled – then his eyes went wide, and he asked, “Wait—she wants you to leave the country while your grandmother …?”

“Yes.”

“And after your grandmother’s brother …?”

“To be fair, I don’t think she knew that part when she made these plans – but yes.”

“And the Aurors are letting her go?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the Aurors are thrilled to see her gone.”

“Merlin,” Zach muttered, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

Vivianne pulled away, far enough so she could carefully, meticulously fix each strand. Zach, to his credit, sat still and put up with it.

“And,” she went on, “I have no bloody idea how to put her off. I mean, speaking reason has never worked. Merlin knows that Grandmother—Grandmother’s probably done it since Mother was a baby, and a fat lot of good it’s done. And I’m—I’m not Grandmother.”

“Vivianne.” Zach caught her hand in his, caressing the knuckles with his thumb and staring into her eyes. “You don’t have to be your grandmother. Your mother is a grown woman. Let her make her own mistakes, stand on her own two feet.”

“ _Ha_!” Vivianne rolled her eyes. “Oh, I’d pay to see that.”

Zach watched her with one eyebrow raised; Vivianne found her gaze dropping. “Any—anyway. I still don’t know how to put her off. I mean—if I was seventeen it would be one thing—but I’m not seventeen until March, and even then …”

“You could …” Zach started, and stopped.

Vivianne looked up.

He was biting his lip again. “You could stay here?” he asked. “At school, I mean. I mean—you’d hardly be the only one … I’ll be staying …”

Vivianne blinked, taken aback. “You’re—staying? I mean, I know your father … well … but your mother …?”

“I—uh—didn’t find out until it was too late …”

Her boyfriend was a terrible liar. You could see it in the flush and the way that he wouldn’t meet her eyes. So Vivianne raised an eyebrow at him until he capitulated.

Zach sighed. “My mum—has a boyfriend. At least—that’s what I’m gathering from Aunt Beth’s letters. And …” He rubbed his free hand through his hair. Vivianne’s hand itched to put the hair right again, but she waited – for now. Might as well let him finish messing it up before she put more effort into fixing it.

“You don’t like him? He sounds like a bit of a git?” Vivianne asked.

“It’s the first one since my dad left. When I was seven,” Zach replied, voice very tight.

And somehow, Vivianne heard all that he wasn’t saying. She remembered being old enough to see and understand that her mother was dating someone – and then another someone – and another someone – etc. To understand that “Mummy’s men friends” were not, in fact, friends at all. To wonder how this new man was going to react to her, to be afraid that maybe this would be the one that her mother would marry and take Vivianne away from Caer Tintagel to live with this strange new man …

It took a while even for Vivianne to grow jaded, to realize that her mother’s love life was a revolving door and that men were dumped back on the pavement almost as quickly as they went in. It took even longer for Vivianne to realize that “love life” was entirely the wrong term for it, and that there were plenty of other terms that, while cruder, were also more accurate.

And she wasn’t Zach.

And her mother wasn’t, as far as she could tell, anything like Zach’s mother.

Still, Vivianne subtly adjusted her hand so now she was holding Zach’s hand instead of the other way around. “If it makes you feel better,” she said lightly, “I wouldn’t worry until your mother got onto her sixth … or sixtieth.”

“Sarah is my father’s third wife,” Zach replied, his voice uncomfortably tight.

Vivianne’s eyebrows went up.

“He has four kids. And the only two who have the same mum are Chloe and Phoebe – and they’re _twins_.”

“So what you’re telling me,” Vivianne said, “is that it’s only natural that you’re perhaps a bit confused and insecure about this new development.”

Zach seemed to start and stared at her.

Vivianne shrugged. “Well, it is. And quite frankly, I don’t blame you for wanting to stay far away from the whole thing until it sorts itself out. There’s nothing you can do about it – so no reason to get involved.”

“Aunt Beth says that my mum is happy,” Zach replied, which wasn’t particularly to the point … but which said a great deal.

Vivianne raised an eyebrow. “And? I don’t mean to disparage your aunt – but it may, perhaps, be just the _tiniest_ bit easier for her to be happy over your mother’s good fortune than it is for you. She’s—your mother’s sister?”

Zach nodded.

“Well, there you have it, then. Hardly any complicated feelings there.” Remembering her mother’s feelings about her own sister – and some of the dynamics she’d watched over the years – Vivianne backtracked. “Well, there _can_ be complicated feelings, but from what I am given to understand, usually sisters are able to be happy when their sisters find romantic happiness. If for no other reason than that they are usually happy enough to say ‘good riddance to bad rubbish.’ Um. Er …”

“My dad was bad rubbish. At least as far as he treated my mum.”

Vivianne breathed out and nodded. “So there you have it. I shouldn’t worry about your aunt thinking you ought to be happy for your mum. Don’t worry about not feeling the right way. You can’t control how you feel. Worry about your actions; those you can control.”

Zach raised his eyebrows. “And if staying at Hogwarts is … the best way I can act …”

“ _C’est la vie_ ,” Vivianne shrugged.

“And you?” Zach asked.

Vivianne blinked. Then she remembered what they had been talking about.

And she smiled. “Well—you see, Zachary—you just dropped the perfect actions right into my lap.”

Now it was Zach’s turn to blink.

“I shall be staying at Hogwarts for the holiday,” Vivianne purred, “because my very cute, very sweet boyfriend is staying as well. And _that_ – whatever the rest of the Clan might have to say – is an excuse my mother will never, ever question.”

Zach grinned. “Glad to be of service.”

“Mmm. Not as glad as you’re about to be.”

And that was the last bit of talking that they accomplished for a long time.


	42. Chapter 41: What Is This?

**Chapter 41: What Is This?**

“So, y’all ready for the fallout?” Ben asked as he dusted the snow off his knees and looked critically at the last piece.

“Hell yeah.” That was Cameron.

“Yep.” And Ringo.

“I live for fallout. And not just the copy of _Fallout 3_ that my mum’s getting me for Christmas.” Kenny, of course.

“Not really.”

“Oh, c’mon, Book; you only live once.” Ben sighed. “And compared to where we were last year at this time, we’ve done far less for the Hogwarts Sanity Saver fund—TM—than we did last year.”

“‘TM’?” Booker frowned, rubbing at a nose that was red enough to obscure most of the freckles sprinkled across it.

“Trademark. Basically a corporate way of saying ‘give me that, it’s mine.’” Kenny grinned at him. “Cheer up, Book; it’ll all work out in the end.”

“What if it doesn’t?” Booker sighed.

“Then it’s not the end; ask anyone.” Kenny nudged a snowbank with his foot.

“Ken?” Ben asked.

“Sorry, I just—I’m not used to looking forward to Christmas.” He shot them a lopsided smile. “I’m used to soldiering through this time of year, stoically telling myself that my dad will come around. Even if I know that he won’t.” Kenny knelt down next to the snowbank and started patting it into a more pleasing shape.

“Fuck your dad, Ken. With like a big rubber two-ended dildo—with Mickey Mouse on the other side.” Ringo flicked his wand at the snow, which formed itself into a ball and smacked Kenny in the back of his head with it.

“What did Mickey Mouse ever do to deserve being dicked with my dad?” Kenny threw a giant peppermint at Ringo.

“No food fights! We have a schedule!” Ben exaggerated the British pronunciation as he waved his hand like Rove.

“You know what else I wanna know about Ben? He’s all beer and pussy and explosions, hamburger-in-my-face American—and yet he’s the one who makes us Brits look like dicks.” Ringo shook his head, tossing the gumdrop he’d been about to lob at Kenny back into its place.

“Meh, takes a dick to know a dick.” Ben smirked. “So, c’mon, Book, lie to us, we can’t start without you.”

“Fine, I’m ready.” Booker took a deep breath. “ _Ish_ ,” he added in a mutter that Ben chose to ignore.

With the well-oiled precision of five boys who’d been pranking together since they were firsties who couldn’t even change a match into a needle or levitate a feather, the various components raised themselves out of the snow and began to arrange, attach, and settle into place.

The chorus of vaguely claymation penguins, polar bears, dogs, and reindeers began their first of several programmed songs, moving cheerfully in time to the song, miming beating drums and mouthing words. The large soap-like bubble rose up over Hagrid’s cottage, now decorated in a gingerbread facade, as penguins and miniature polar bears wandered out into the yard.

Giant peppermints mimicked a fence; smaller ones studded the chimney like bricks. Swags of licorice looped along the roof overhang. Candy canes lined a walk to a garden, complete with ice sculpture flowers, marshmallow chairs, and gumdrop lamps.

Speaking of Hagrid, his bearded face poked out of the cottage interior, lighting up with delight. He gave a peculiar shrill whistle, and a hippogriff trotted out of the forest. The bubble – which, God, wasn’t that a bitch to get right – rose into an arch to allow it in. Hagrid grinned and pulled out a set of reindeer antlers, which he placed on the seemingly resigned hippogriff, and waved Ben and his friends over. “I got ter take a picture fer Harry.”

Ben and his friends arranged themselves around the hippogriff. Kenny and Ringo were on its left, arms slung around each other’s shoulders. Booker was next to Cameron, or more maybe in front of him, with Cameron pushing Booker’s face up into an exaggerated smile, grinning all the while like a loon. Ben was on the end, Red Sox cap turned backward, fingers up in a peace sign.

Ben later heard, but never confirmed, that a copy of that picture went up on the wall of the office belonging to that most famous of former Gryffindors.

“What is that?” The first voice not belonging to Ben and his friends came from up the hill slightly.

“The prank, Sandy! It’s the Christmas prank; gotta be. Sandy! Go get Marisa and Carmen! This is bloody _awesome!_ ” A second voice came in.

“Yes, yes it is, kid,” Cameron muttered, kneeling down to pet the miniature bear that had wandered over.

* * *

When Rowan finally climbed over the ridge and saw Hagrid’s hut below, all done up like a gingerbread house and ensconced in a spell that looked just like a snow globe, she couldn’t help it. She gasped.

Candice, of course, was a bit louder. “Oh my God – are those _claymation reindeer_?” she shouted. “My childhood! It just—it just exploded on the lawn!”

“Your _childhood_?” Aubrey asked, tweaking the end of Candice’s scarf. “You’re fifteen! You’re too young to be nostalgic about your childhood. It’s not even over yet.”

“Says you,” Candice replied, sticking her tongue out at Aubrey before skipping – and very nearly tripping – down the hill with the rest of the students. The rest of the group followed a little more slowly.

Blair fell into step beside Rowan. “What’s clay-mation?”

“Um,” Rowan replied, “you—you r-r-remember w-what we t-t-told you about c-c-cartoons?”

Blair nodded.

“It’s—l-l-like that—only instead of d-d-drawing a bunch of pictures and f-f-filming them really f-fast, they make little c-clay figures and s-sets and—everything else. And they f-f-film that frame by f-frame.”

Blair blinked. “That—sounds like an awful lot of work.”

“Blair,” Quill replied, shaking his head. “You have to understand—when it comes to Muggle entertainment, nothing’s too much work. Not when there’s money to be made.”

Blair snorted, but smiled, and together the five of them continued down the hill.

News traveled fast through the castle, but the speed wasn’t quite constant. The Hufflepuffs and even more than a few Slytherins had already gotten the best viewing areas close to the hut. Zach was there with Spencer and Trevor … and, Rowan was a little surprised to notice, Sybilla and Vivianne as well. Vivianne had her head on Zach’s shoulder and was holding his hand.

Zach waved when he saw them, as did Spencer and Trevor – and so, once they turned, did Sybilla and Vivianne.

Rowan found it easy to smile and wave back. She didn’t even look for a trap behind her.

Candice was short, but she wasn’t hard to follow – not when she plowed a path through the crowds that a Beater twice her size would have had difficulty topping. So it was barely any time at all before they were able to get through the students to where Ben and his friends were standing, accepting congratulations and all the rest of it.

Rowan quickened her pace as they got closer, and by some miracle, she didn’t fall flat on her face as she skipped over to Ben. “Ben!” She outpaced her friends and ran up to him, jumping up to give him a kiss on the cheek. (Ben helped by stooping down, otherwise that maneuver would have probably ended quite messily.) “This is b-b-brilliant!”

“Thanks, darlin’,” Ben said, putting an arm around her waist and holding her close.

“How d-d-did you even …” Rowan started, then broke off, shaking her head, because if she didn’t even know where to start to ask, how could they possibly know where to start to answer?

“Very carefully,” Cameron deadpanned, while Selena chuckled.

“Yeah, especially with the penguins,” Kenny added. “Mess up with them, and it’ll bite you right in the arse – literally, as it happens.”

“And let’s not even get into all the carrots we had to feed to the reindeer to get them to cooperate,” Ringo added. Rowan noticed that his arm was around Carrie as he talked. Donna was a little apart, taking pictures. “We were gonna have snowmen, too, but they weren’t keen to perform after we de-nosed them all to get the reindeer to learn their parts of the song.”

Booker just rolled his eyes, but Rowan saw that he was smiling – and so, for that matter, was Niketa.

Rowan smiled a little herself and edged that much closer to Ben.

“So how _did_ you do it?” asked Jon, and Rowan knew she wasn’t imagining the curious, appraising look in his eye. “The – the snow globe effect – is that something like a Bubble Head Charm? And the snow—”

“Eh, Jon, leave it fer a day!” Hagrid’s booming laugh cut through the conversation as easily as a knife through butter. “Ask ‘em tomorrow how they did it; fer now, let’s just enjoy the fact that they did.”

“It’s awesome, isn’t it, Hagrid?” Candice asked.

“That it is,” he agreed. He took a deep breath and wiped away some moisture from the corner of his eye.

“You know,” Candice went on, “if you dyed your beard white and put on a red coat – you’d do a pretty good impersonation of Father Christmas. It’d complete the scene!”

Hagrid blinked. “Yeh know,” he mused, “I think I have a red cloak inside …” Without another word, he stumped off to the house, the bubble creating an arch to let him into the scene.

“Wow,” Aubrey murmured.

“Um,” Booker asked, sounding a trifle nervous, “do any of us know any spells to turn Hagrid’s beard white?”

Niketa turned and looked around. “Where,” she murmured, “is Belle Devereaux when you need her?”

“Belle Deveraux?” asked Selena.

“She would know the spell if anyone would.”

Rowan shook her head and let the conversation wash around her. She stood on tiptoe and managed a quick kiss on Ben’s cheek. “H-H-Happy Christmas, Ben. Thanks for this.”

“Merry Christmas, Rowan. An’ you’re welcome.”

Smiling, Rowan leaned her head on Ben’s – well – chest – and contented herself with simply watching the scene before them.

After all, perfect moments didn’t come very often. So it was best to enjoy them while one could.

* * *

“And what about those figures? How do you think the students, who are not—shall we say—as familiar with the Muggle world as others, feel about something which they have no point of reference to enjoy?”

Flitwick scowled as Rove talked straight over him, his praise for the level of practical charms work on the part of those most troublesome sixth-year Gryffindor boys going unheard by the headmaster.

It was time for Leo to cut in, having been mostly quiet during Rove’s rantings, trying to let the headmaster work through it. But this was getting ridiculous. As every teacher and staff member besides Yaxley, Filch, and Rove himself had told Leo in the days leading up to this, the school needed the relief. They hadn’t had any students in the somber years between Leo starting at Hogwarts and the start of the now sixth-years who had much penchant for mischief; they’d been quiet years, but they were also hard years.

Not that Leo was advocating running Rove’s pants up the flagstaff, but considering that had been half as embarrassing for Rove as it had been because he had chosen to act as _he_ had, Leo had nearly no sympathy for the man. Those boys had been pranksters since they walked in the door, Moore and de Falco being a pair of unholy terrors who had bonded immediately on the train to Hogwarts – though Merlin only how. What did a mafioso’s son and a Texan cowboy have in common _to_ bond over? Whatever it was, it was a friendship that had plunged them straight into perpetual trouble ever since.

Back when the pair had been firsties, before teen angst had reared its ugly head, it was Lipskit who had been the butt of many of the pranks. Both boys had been somewhat in awe of McGonagall; it had taken a while to overcome that and go for school-wide pranks. The very first of their pranks had started in Gryffindor Tower.

It had been Leo’s policy then – as it was now – to laugh first and hardest when the joke was on him, then remind them they’d be yukking it up in detention: harsh enough they’d not pull that particular prank again, but not so much as to try and crush the irrepressibly Weasley-twin-like spirit out of them. They learned; they always learned. But in some ways, that just made the boys more creative.

If, somehow, they had managed to find and spirit Leo’s undergarments out of the laundry and run them up the flagpole (not that Leo imagined that his pants would have been nearly so … easy to pick out in a crowd), drawing attention to the fact that they were, indeed, _his_ pants would have been silly.

Only by throwing a tantrum, more or less, did Rove make it so that the makeshift flag that the school was looking at was irrevocably tied to the headmaster himself.

But that was only a symptom, not the cause, of what was really going on here, and Leo knew it. It was about respect. Leo knew kids; he’d known them since he’d been a senior warden on the dragon preserve and had watched himself creep further and further in age from the newest rangers. Their age had remained static; his was the one that changed.

Funny thing about kids: the more their respect was demanded of them, the less they gave. Commanding respect was one thing; McGonagall had done that. Like her or no, the kids respected her because she could run into a class of first-year students in Animagus form, shift into a human, and promptly turn her desk into a pig. Because she was McGonagall, because she’d protected the students the best she could through whatever life had thrown at them, because she’d hauled the school back to its feet in those dark days after the wizarding war and got this crazy train running once more.

But saying “I am the [insert thing], you _will_ respect me,” never worked. And that was Rove’s single trick as far as Leo had ever seen.

He could guess, having known men like Rove before, that the headmaster felt his fall from grace had been heralded by that incident with his pants and the flagstaff in the courtyard. That so many of the staff disagreed with him on so many things, and Rove had nothing to bring them back into line, was eating at his ability to meet even the basic level of competence that they had seen out of him before.

“About the same,” Leo’s voice cut through the threads of Rove’s ranting and turned heads in his direction, “as the Muggle-born students feel when they first find out about Quidditch, Chocolate Frog Cards, Gobstones, and playing cards that explode. Yet we haven’t forbidden the students who are familiar with the wizarding world from enjoy any of those things.”

“That is entirely different, Leo!” Rove snapped.

“No, it really isn’t.” Leo leaned back in his chair, Dragon resettling on his lap as he did so.

“Getting into how that is or isn’t different …” Yaxley began, scowling over her teacup. Zanetti rubbed her fingertip between her brows, where Yaxley was sure to develop a wrinkle, despite her many-galleon youth-in-a-bottle serums, if she kept scowling like that. The scowl deepened. “It’s—counter-productive. Have we forgotten, then, about the attack that Vivianne suffered? All those students—outside—in the same hours as that happened!”

“The school’s policy was that students were not to be _alone_ outside. There was three-quarters, at the very least, of the school around Hagrid’s house,” Pomfrey reminded her.

“I can’t believe you’re advocating for this, Poppy!” Yaxley gasped.

“I can’t imagine why not; I’ve always been an advocate for _sanity_ , Rosie.” The matron stirred a lump into her own tea and selected a biscuit from the tray that Kilduff had brought in when it was obvious that nothing short of an attack on the school was going to pry the staff from their meeting.

“How is this sane?”

“The only time we’ve had an attack—the student was _alone_ ,” Flitwick pointed out. “Wild animals do not like crowds.”

“But we don’t know what this thing _is_. How do we know its behavior is standard with what we know about other animals?” Yaxley insisted.

“The lady has a point, Filius,” Leo said. The entire staff as one turned to look at Leo. “What? It’s true; we don’t know what this thing is _or_ how it behaves. I’m not so small of a man that I will deny someone’s got a point when they do. We have a sample size of two actual appearances. One while we were at the ruins, where there was a small group of us, one while Miss Gorlois was alone. That’s not enough to build a theory of behavior off of.”

“Still,” Flitwick slowly dunked his peppermint brownie in a comically large mug, obviously hand-thrown by a relatively inexperienced potter, with “World’s Greatest Deputy Headmaster” painted on it as well as a caricature of the Ravenclaw head of house done by someone who had a bit more experience than the mug’s creator, “with every student who knows a fire-charm gathered around the house, if the creature had appeared …?” He trailed off significantly.

Leo nodded in acknowledgment; that thing would’ve been a burnt smudge on the snow with that many students out there. Which is why Leo didn’t object to the prank – if it even was one – on that level.

“And let us not forget,” apparently Rove thought they hadn’t heard enough of his voice already, as he picked up a thread, “that the whole thing was a distraction. Students should be focusing on their _studies_ – many of them have tests on the morrow – not out gawking at … whatever that thing was.”

“Yes, Maxwell, it was a distraction. A much-needed distraction,” Pythagoras disagreed, startling most of the other teachers; the stern Arthimancy instructor was usually silent in these debates. “For six years now, those boys have done _something_ to distract the school at this time of year, when most of the students are slow, sluggish, and stuffed with so much knowledge you couldn’t stuff any more in there for all you try.”

“Indeed,” Sprout agreed. “The students do _so much better_ on their tests after an evening of thinking about something else.”

“And what about the boys themselves? That was a _huge_ undertaking, which obviously distracted them from their own studies!” Rove slammed his fist on the table.

“I dunno about Filius,” Puccini glanced down the table at the Ravenclaw head of house, “but I’m inclined to give every one of them in my class extra credit; the transfiguration work was incredible if you looked at it.”

“I quite agree,” Flitwick said. “They demonstrated amazing levels of competence in that piece. It shows they haven’t been sleeping through my lectures.”

“Like you decided to set up an independent study for Rowan O’Blake to start after the students return from Christmas holiday, despite my protestations— _and_ Professor Yaxley’s—with no regard for why she was kicked out of the class in the first place?” Rove snarled before petulantly Summoning a piece of fudge.

Leo, as many did, liked to pretend he wasn’t petty, but he had a brief moment of hoping that the fudge was from one of the many pans Hagrid had brought up to the school.

“And why not, Maxwell? It is, after all, my fault in part that she was kicked out of the class in the first place. And it’s not like we don’t have a history of students being allowed to do independent studies,” Flitwick asked, shooting a hard look at the headmaster.

“As you told the Board of Governors, to whom you spoke without consulting me!” Rove barked, missing his cup with the creamer and pausing to Vanish the spilled cream. He glared at Flitwick afterward, as if it were the deputy headmaster’s fault that he couldn’t pour.

“As he’s _allowed_ , Maxwell.” Sprout stared incredulously at the headmaster. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the measures the board enacted after that whole debacle with—that Umbridge woman! We are allowed to bring concerns in front of the board if we feel the issue is pressing. And he waited until the board regularly convened; it’s not like he petulantly called an emergency session right after the incident happened.” She was nursing what looked like a hot toddy, which she swirled with a cinnamon stick before biting the head off a reindeer cookie.

“I gave you my final word!” Rove’s teacup would have upended as his fist pounded onto the table if Kilduff had been a little slower with her wand. She smiled and ruefully, if silently, offered him a cookie, which he waved away with a scowl.

“And it was wrong—and you know it!” Flitwick burst out. “And the board knew it, too, the only two members of the board who voted against it were …” He took a large bite of his brownie and shook his head.

“Obviously, some of the board members didn’t agree, then,” Rove practically purred.

“As they will not,” Leo interjected. “Very, very few things require a unanimous vote from the board. With that many strong personalities on it? It’s the only way they get anything done.”

“I suppose _you_ agree with Filius.” Rove’s purr was long gone.

“I don’t think it’s any of my business. I have an opinion, yes; I have an opinion on a lot of things. I’m allowed,” Leo snapped. “However, it doesn’t involve my class or a student in _my_ house, and thus my opinion on the subject is no more pertinent than my opinion on the subject of strong cheese or the Chudley Cannons.”

“What would you do if it _had_ involved your student or class?” Rove pressed.

“I like to think that I would acknowledge that maybe I was too close to the issue to be rational and thus hand the decision to the nearest non-vested entity. Of which, I will admit, I think the Board of Governors worked just fine. Most of them are far enough removed from the issue that there’s nothing cluttering up a clear-headed vote. Even taking out the few who _are_ closer to the issue, and might have personal opinions, Filius _still_ had his majority,” Leo snapped. “There’s _nothing_ wrong with admitting that you are personally compromised in a decision and taking yourself out of it.”

“Are you implying that I am personally compromised, Leo?”

“Yes.”

* * *

Brigid couldn’t help it. She gasped. And she wasn’t the only one.

For a moment there was silence as Leo and Rove watched each other. Rove was turning redder and redder. Leo showed no more emotion than a brick wall.

“That—that you would—I cannot believe—” Rove stuttered.

“You’ve had it out for the five of those boys ever since they ran your pants up the flagpole,” Leo pointed out, quite – if Brigid was being honest with herself – ruthlessly. “I’m not saying they did the right thing. Far from it. But they’ve served their punishment, and they haven’t had any other major prank—”

“Major! _Ha_!” Rosie snarled.

Leo glared at her, and Rosie visibly quailed. “As I was saying, they haven’t been connected to any other major prank since. That little light show they put on for Pomona’s student barely even counts as a prank. The fact that you seem to be hell-bent on making their lives miserable months later means that you’re too personally invested, and you need to let it go.”

“I’m hell-bent? _I’m_ hell-bent? Do you not notice that the five of them are dead set on causing chaos wherever they go? There was that—that absurd, cruel puppet theater—and—”

Brigid coughed as discreetly as she could. “That—that actually wasn’t them at all.”

“Oh, so they _said_ , but knowing what we know now? That Moore’s girlfriend-to-be gave him an alibi? If _you_ believe that …” Rove snorted and shook his head.

Brigid felt herself growing red, but she took a deep breath and pressed forward. “A group of Slytherin girls set up the puppet theater, Maxwell. I heard—well—several of them complained in my class after they were caught and received detention for it. I think Rosie can confirm it.”

That was probably a bad move, one that would sour relations with Rosie – but how could Brigid just stand by and let innocent students be blamed for something they had nothing to do with? She couldn’t.

As for Rosie, she was gaping, but with a red face and a scowl that was trying so very hard to be fierce that Brigid almost felt scared out of sympathy, she nodded. “It—was. A group of fourth-year and fifth-year girls. Just girls being … girls.”

“All right, fine,” Rove spat. “But just because for _once_ those five weren’t responsible for a particular bit of mayhem …”

He stopped, probably because he realized that nobody was actually looking at him. Whether they were paying attention to him with more than half an ear was anyone’s guess, Brigid’s included. Because she, like every other teacher at the table, was not looking at Rove.

She was looking at Leo.

Leo’s eyebrow had gone up quite far, but beyond that, his face was impassive. It would have taken more stoicism than Brigid had not to respond to that – and the teachers’ reaction – and Rove was no stoic.

“ _What_ , Leo?” he snapped.

“You’re proving my point,” Leo said, taking a sip of his coffee as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

“ _What_?”

“If you’re going to get this upset, accuse those boys of pranks they didn’t pull and that don’t even fit their typical MO, _and_ accuse students with no history of pranks of _any_ sort of colluding with them,” Leo went on, “you are proving that you are too personally invested to be rational about this.”

Rove took a deep breath. He was so red-faced that Brigid shot a nervous glance at Poppy, and was not at all reassured to see that Poppy had put her teacup down and quite forgotten about her biscuit as she watched the headmaster very, very closely.

Whatever he was about to say, though, never got said – as Hagrid spoke up for the first time since the meeting had started.

“Look, Maxwell,” he said, his voice the kind of low, earthy rumble that said _danger_ to anybody with a hint of instinct, “at the end o’ the day, this ain’t the kids’ fault. Sure, they set up that snow globe – but only after _I_ told ‘em they could. An’ it’s not like we don’t decorate the place for Christmas!” Hagrid threw his arms out wide. Puccini had to duck, but luckily the person on his other side was Filius, whose hair stirred a bit in the breeze but who otherwise was completely unaffected by the gesture. “So what if they only told one teacher what they were plannin’? This isn’t a prank, not really. It’s not against school rules. Why can’t we just let it be?”

“Hagrid is right,” Leo added. “It’s not like we tell the kids they can’t put up some of their own decorations for Christmas. Or any other holiday. And they asked permission from a teacher, so I don’t see what the problem is here.”

Rosie snorted.

Maybe that was why Camilla spoke up. “And, seriously, is that a precedent we really want to set?” she asked. “That if a student asks permission to do something from a teacher, they can _still_ end up in trouble because the headmaster …” Her gesture, half a shrug, half a throwing out of her arms, said the rest of what needed to be said. “Do we really want to undermine each other in this way? Maxwell, if you punish these kids now, all you’re going to show is that they can’t trust anything we say!”

“Well, of course you’d agree with him,” Rove jerked his head in Leo’s direction. “You’re sleeping with him!”

Brigid gasped.

She wasn’t the only one. Even Rosie looked shocked.

Brigid found her gaze volleying between Leo, Camilla, and Rove. Leo had his blank face on, although in this case it was _so_ blank that Brigid thought there had to be some genuine surprise mixed in. Rove’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as his gaze volleyed around the staff table.

And Camilla? Camilla may as well have had steam coming out of her ears.

“Is that what you think?” she asked, and Brigid found herself edging away from the table.

“Enough!” said Pomona – and probably because she was Camilla’s former head of house (and probably _only_ because of that), Camilla stood down.

Pomona next turned her glare to Rove. “Maxwell, that was—that was unprofessional and uncalled for. If you don’t have a better argument than to resort to—rude gossip—you don’t have an argument!” She took a deep breath and patted down her frizzy hair, which, if Brigid wasn’t seeing things, was getting even frizzier by the moment. “And let me ask you something: when was the last time you went near Leo’s office?”

“Leo’s _office_?” Rove demanded. “What on earth does that have to do with—”

“Do you remember the swamp?” Pomona asked. “You must have passed by it a hundred times. Do you remember it, Maxwell?”

“Of course I remember the bloody swamp, and Filius, I can’t imagine why you haven’t taken that damn thing down already, it’s been _years_ —”

“Because we’re not going to forget,” said Neville.

All eyes around the table turned to him.

Most of the time, it was easy to forget that Neville was a war hero. Most of the time, it was easy to ignore the scars and instead see the broad, pleasant face, the unfailing friendliness, the kindliness that led him to water unloved plants and look after lonely students. Most of the time, it was easy to forget that Neville had been one of the leaders of the student resistance when the Carrows ruled the school, the only one who had stayed from the first of September until the end of the final battle. Most of the time, it was easy to forget that it had been Neville who had pulled Godric Gryffindor’s sword out of the Sorting Hat – while the hat was _on fire_ – and killed You-Know-Who’s snake.

And then there were the times when it wasn’t.

One of Neville’s hands was in his pocket, and there was a faint jingling sound – like he was playing with coins inside the pocket. Other than that, his gaze was completely level as he stared Maxwell down. “Nobody who was at Hogwarts that year will forget,” he went on. “Umbridge tried to take over the school from within, but she failed. She pushed too hard, and practically every student was fighting against her in one way or another. Maxwell, obviously you’re headmaster, and obviously you aren’t an … interloper the way Umbridge was. But don’t think the students have forgotten. Don’t think _we_ have forgotten.”

He gestured around the table, and Brigid was not surprised to see the teachers and staff members who had been there during Umbridge’s reign of, well, umbrage – Filius and Pomona, Poppy and Irma, Aurora and Firenze, and of course Hagrid – nodding along.

“As far as the kids are concerned, it was students who chased Umbridge away in the end.” Neville grinned. “And they’re not wrong.”

“Are you,” Rove sputtered, “are you _threatening_ me? _Me_? Your headmaster?”

“No,” Neville said. “I’m just pointing out what’s likely to happen if you keep going down this path. It didn’t end well for Umbridge.”

“Didn’t end well fer the centaurs, neither,” Hagrid muttered.

Rove continued to sputter. He took a deep breath—

“Maxwell,” Filius interrupted before he could speak, “we might wish to call it a night. All of us have classes to teach and exams to grade tomorrow. And if we keep going now, while we’re all – upset – the only thing that will happen is that we will say things that we may not precisely mean but that we cannot take back.”

Rove’s eyes blazed as he glared at Filius. Filius didn’t even raise an eyebrow in reply.

Like Neville, it was sometimes easy to forget what Filius had seen, what he had survived. But then there were times one remembered that he had crossed wands with You-Know-Who and survived.

“Fine,” Rove spat. “Fine! Have it your way. We’ll recess and—we’ll call it a night. But don’t think this is over!” Rove said, pointing at Lipskit.

Lipskit only raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”


	43. Chapter 42: 'Twas the Night Before Christmas

**Chapter 42: ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas**

And all through the tower, Gryffindors were stirring, sobbing, and otherwise making it difficult for themselves to get to sleep, even though many of them were going to be mightily unhappy to get up in the morning to make the train because of this evening’s diversions. In the distance, if you knew where to look, you could see Hagrid’s hut, the snow globe still standing, though Ben was as amazed as anyone.

Given what the rumor mill had churned out about it, especially.

There were all sorts of things that had spilled out. That Professor Longbottom had reminded Rove that Hogwarts would _not_ suffer another despot. That Professor Lipskit had told Rove he was too invested in seeing Ben and his friends out of school. That Professor Flitwick had charmed lights to hover outside all of Rove’s windows, then charmed his curtains into a state perma-openess.

He could see the first. As for the second, something had kept Rove from kicking Ben and his friends out, even if he was scowling in a way that seemed counter to his hitherto policy of looking as beneficent as possible – as if the _Prophet_ had a photographer in the bushes and would be taking pictures of Rove all the time. The third was far too petty for Flitwick.

There were also plenty of rumors about Hagrid playing the crazy wildcatter and threatening unspecified harm to anyone who tried to touch his house – or really anything in the snow globe bubble, along with rumors that he actually had a lot of backing. The swamp had even been brought up in comparison.

But that wasn’t even the worst of them, not really. There were all sorts of rumors about Lipskit and Professor Zanetti – that they were dating, that they were lovers, that they hadn’t been lovers but now, after some spiteful accusations, they _were_ and the list of possible places they’d consummated their relationship was wide and varied. Seriously, Lipskit was a private person; if he were going to fuck anyone, he would _not_ do it on Rove’s desk.

With all those headmaster portraits watching? That would melt the hard-on off anyone like the One Ring in the fires of Mount Doom. Watching, speculating, offering pointers or criticism? It did bring to mind the humorous, if slightly scarring, mental image of the former headmasters rating the performance like Olympic judges.

“What are you thinking?” Cameron asked as he folded a sweater and laid it in his trunk.

“About the former headmasters rating Lipskit’s performance if he fucked Zanetti on Rove’s desk as the rumor mill would have us believe.”

“Where do you come up with this shit?”

“In this case, a chick flick. A guy says he has a recurring dream in which he’s making love in front of the Olympic judging panel.” Ben smirked. “‘And my mother, disguised as an East German judge, gave me a five point six. Musta been the dismount.’”

“You disturb me, sir.”

“My aunt is a woman of a certain age—of course she loves Nora Ephron.” Ben might have said more, except he was being stalked – and his hunter (or huntress, in this case) chose that moment to strike. A moment later, with little more than a flag of tabby tail to serve as warning, something impacted with Ben’s shoulder. The half-grown kitten grabbed Ben’s shirt and worried the tiny mouthful as Ben exaggeratedly tipped himself over.

“She got me, Cam! Save yourself. Save. Your. Self,” Ben gasped out in his best “I’m dying” voice. Chance pounced up and down Ben’s arm and chest as he heaved himself onto his back, grabbing mouthfuls of shirt and tugging on them.

“Somehow, I’m not scared.” Cameron shook his head. “Besides, it’s too late.”

Ben caught his cat up into his hands and set her on the bed beside him, tapping her white feet with a finger as she pounced and tried to get his hands.

“Cam?”

“I’m not even sure I should come back—after the holiday I mean.” Cameron sat down on his bed, cradling his head in his hands as his socks continued to fold themselves and pack into the suitcase. “What’s the point?”

“The point is you can only live before you die. And you’re not dead yet.” Ben shook his head. “You’re not even not dead yet in a ‘you’re moments away from being hit with a fry-pan and chucked into a wheelbarrow’ sort of way.” Cameron raised an eyebrow at Ben. “Movie reference. Seriously, dude, we need to get you on a plane out to Texas this summer. Do a couple of weeks in Prairie Dog Fork, watch some movies. Put some meat on them bones, throwin’ bales, wranglin’ cows for shots, running from my cousin and her temper. You’re awful scrawny for a dude whose life’s goal is knee-capping people. Last thing you want is to corner some guy who wronged the family and have him point and laugh ‘cause you’re so skinny, y’know.”

“I am not scrawny.”

“Dude, everyone knows knee-cappers need to be the approximate bulk of the Incredible Hulk – the seventies TV version, not the CGI one. Or maybe Ahnold at his Mr. Universe size,” Ben told him. “You really should consider protein powder supplements—and maybe a lifting regiment?”

“Really? You’re giving me bulk-up tips?” Cameron asked, plaintively.

“Well, I’m about out of good advice on not giving up. And wasn’t quite ready to jump onto the begging and sobbing train,” Ben told him. “Booker is no substitute. Besides, can you imagine trying to double at Madam Puddifoots with Book and Niketa, me an’ Rowan?”

“I thought you were morally against Madam Puddifoots – something about it violating the Geneva Conventions?” Cameron smirked, before it melted off his face.

“Besides, you have to come back! Think of us. Think of how smug-slash-determined Rove will be if he gets rid of you. He’ll chase Book, Ringo, Kenny, an’ me around like the Wicked Witch of the West after Dorothy! He’s probably building up his army of winged monkeys as we speak!” Ben intoned melodramatically. “An’ I don’t have the legs for a gingham dress, Cam!”

“He wouldn’t have gotten rid of me,” Cameron pointed out.

“You think anyone in the world would convince him of that? You could come back, turn his knees backward, and he’d still swear from the mountain tops that he got rid of you.” Ben lifted Chance up and flopped onto Cameron’s bed. “An’ it’ll be doubly unfair because we’re all in hot water with Rove cause of you in the first place.” He offered the cat to Cameron, who sighed and took her, stroking the soft fur on her back.

“Seriously, Cam, Selena’s right; if you give up now, you won’t live at all.”

“I don’t know how to even begin to tell my dad I don’t want the life. I know you guys keep offering ideas, but …” He scrubbed at the perma-stubble on his cheek and looked at Chance, who bopped him on the nose. “Ahh! She got me, Ben, save yourself!”

From somewhere beyond in the common room, a rousing chorus of “God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs” started up.

“C’mon, dude, now is not the time for angst; now is the time to get wired on sugar like we’re firsties and bounce off the walls until we crash. It’s Christmas.”

“It is. It’s Christmas.” It wasn’t quite “thank you,” but it was close enough that Ben knew what he was saying, and he clasped his friend on the shoulder as they headed off toward the common room and the craziness that was sure to be there.

* * *

It was the first time that Vivianne would not be spending Christmas at home. Somehow, watching the rest of the Slytherins guzzle Butterbeer and exchange Christmas presents and talk excitedly about their plans for the break had brought that home to Vivianne in a way that it hadn’t been brought home before. They were going home. She wasn’t.

She told herself the reason that she wasn’t going home was because the one person whom she wanted to see wasn’t going to be there. She told herself that even if she had decided to leave school with everyone else, she wouldn’t be going home. Not really.

It didn’t help.

So as Belle explained to Sybilla the intricacies of the twenty-piece makeup set she had gotten for her (“I know this is too much trouble for every day, but imagine Spencer’s face when you show up for a date all dolled up!”), Vivianne quietly got up from the couch and wandered over to a small, quiet corner of the common room, a little corridor set apart from the rest.

The Slytherin Hall of Fame.

She didn’t know if the other houses had something like this. She’d never asked – until recently, she hadn’t had classmates in other houses that she knew well enough _to_ ask. But it was something that was shown to every Slytherin on their first night in the school.

The wall had photos of every graduating class of Slytherins, plus separate photos of every year’s Quidditch team, stretching back to the dawn of photography. Older than that, there were a few portraits of famous Slytherins: Phineas Nigellus Black, Perseus Parkinson, even one of Merlin, for all that he had no actual portraits painted in his lifetime couldn’t have been in Slytherin anyway.

In between the class photos, there were candid shots of students throughout their years at Hogwarts. There were always the most photos of students who had recently graduated. As time went on and more space was needed, photos were slowly taken down. The ones that remained were the ones who best embodied all that Salazar Slytherin had stood for: ambition, cunning, leadership, making something of oneself in the world.

There were many Gorloises on these walls.

There were, in particular, a few photos of Vivianne’s grandmother.

Vivianne headed for the photos documenting the class of 1951.

She didn’t get nearly that far. A flash of movement from the class of 1991 caught her eye.

Vivianne didn’t know why she turned to look. She’d seen that photo many times before. As always, her eye went to where her mother was standing with Professor Yaxley’s arm thrown over her shoulder.

Today, however, she noticed something … different.

Her mother was laughing, as usual. But suddenly she stopped laughing. Her mouth opened in a silent yelp. She rubbed her rear.

Then she turned to the young man standing next to her and playfully slapped him on the shoulder.

Vivianne’s heart began to pound.

She could do basic maths. She had been born in March 1992. That meant that in June 1991 …

Her eyes went down to the key, looking for the names she knew so well.

_Yaxley, R. Gorlois, M. Bullock, D. (QC)._

_QC?_ There was only one thing QC could mean.

Vivianne’s eyes went to a photo she’d never paid much attention to before. The Quidditch team from 1990-1991.

Right in the center, holding the Quidditch cup high and smirking at the camera, was Dashwood Bullock. Vivianne didn’t even have to look at the key to know which one was him.

In 1980s and 1990s, the Quidditch team had been built like brick walls. Dashwood Bullock was not. Oh, he was tall, with a fair amount of muscle on him, but next to the rest of the team he looked like a twig. His hair was long, chestnut brown, and tied back in a low ponytail.

Vivianne watched his face, searching, searching, for anything she might recognize. She saw nothing. The eyes, the nose, the lips – nothing matched what she saw in the mirror. The man – boy – in the photo before her might as well have been a stranger.

Then the boy quirked an eyebrow, smiled—

Vivianne’s hand slapped over her own mouth.

_That was her smile_.

Not the shape of the lips, but the movement – the hint that the one smiling was laughing at a joke no one else could hear – the way the right eye crinkled just a bit.

The boy tilted his chin up at the camera, and Vivianne almost gasped again. She did that. She did that all the time. She _thought_ that was a Gorlois trick.

Maybe not.

Every gesture, every move Dashwood – Dash? – made was slightly feline. Like a tiger crouched and ready to spring. Vivianne knew she did that, too, and she’d always thought it was a Gorlois feature. She’d thought _everything_ was a Gorlois feature. How could she have been so blind?

Why hadn’t she—

“WOO!”

“All right, you go, Blake!”

The sound of cheering and applause broke through Vivianne’s reverie and brought her crashing back to earth.

She turned.

At first, she couldn’t see anything. Just a bunch of students (almost all boys) facing the corridors that led to the dormitories and clapping. Vivianne rolled her eyes. Somebody must have been caught under that damn mistletoe. She made her way to the front of the hall.

And stopped dead.

Cornelia was the one under the mistletoe.

And by the way her arms were wrapped around Blake’s neck, her foot actually – oh, _Merlin_ – she had one foot in the air, like an actress in a particularly treacly play – not to mention the closed eyes, and the mouth that – Merlin help them all, were those _tongues_?

If Vivianne had actually been somewhere in private, she would have dropped her head into her hands and slowly shaken her head. On the list of things she did not need to see …

But she wasn’t in private.

So Vivianne did the next best thing.

She started to clap. Not over-enthusiastically – she doubted anyone would even be able to hear it over the idiots cheering at the top of their lungs – but they would _see_ it, and that was all that mattered.

And as soon as Cornelia and Blake pulled away from each other, Cornelia simpering and Blake practically licking his chops, Vivianne made sure her voice pitched to carry. “Oh, bravo, you two, bravo! Good show!”

Cornelia and Blake spun to face her.

There was no moment of panic. Surprise, certainly – but not panic. Even through the surprise, both of them looked extraordinarily well-pleased with themselves. Blake barely wasted a second before smirking and putting an arm around Cornelia’s waist.

As for Cornelia, it took her a moment to remember what her reaction ought to be. “Oh—Vivianne!” She put her hand over her heart and pretended to gasp. “We—we were _going_ to tell you—but we thought—with everything—there just was _never_ a good time—”

“But it seems you’re not upset?” Blake asked, one eyebrow arching. Still smirking. Oh, yes, he was probably picturing her sneaking off to her dormitory to sob into her pillow after this, wasn’t he?

_Idiot_.

“Oh, no,” purred Vivianne. “Not at all. Indeed, I have to congratulate both of you – but especially you, Cornelia.”

_Now_ Cornelia started to look a little panicked.

“You keep up putting on shows like that,” Vivianne went on, “and you’ll be able to join your mother on the stage in no time at all.”

Blake’s jaw fell, and Cornelia’s eyes went wide. “What—what is that supposed to mean?”

“Well—the whole picture—it was absolutely perfect!” Vivianne clapped again. “Like I said: just like a kiss on the stage. I can’t imagine how much the two of you had to practice to get that right.”

“ _Practice_?” Blake asked. “What the hell are you saying, Vivianne?”

“Are you,” and here Cornelia drew herself up to her full height, doing her best to look dignified and affronted, “are you implying that Blake and I _faked_ this?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say _faked_. Play-acted, really. I mean—well, as I said,” Vivianne shrugged, “it looked perfect, like a kiss on the stage. Which is the problem, really. I mean, I find that when I’m going that long with Zach, things tend to get a bit—messy—and it takes me quite five minutes to put myself back together. While you, Cornelia, looked like you just stepped out of the dressing room.”

Cornelia was smirking. Oh, she thought she had Vivianne here. But Vivianne wasn’t going to give her that opportunity. “And I’m sure I can’t be the only one to find that. Ladies? Sybilla?”

“I’ve never seen you and Zach together,” Sybilla replied, “but I will say, once Spencer and I get some—alone time—it usually takes Spencer at least five minutes to get his hair back under control.”

“And while neither Booker nor I have very many difficulties with hair,” Niketa put in, patting her headscarf, “there generally needs to be much straightening of clothing once we are through. And sometimes my lipstick ends up in the oddest places.”

“Oh, you should talk to Belle about that,” Sybilla replied. “Apparently Dark Moon has a whole line of makeup designed not to come off in the most intense snogging session.”

“Sybilla! That is _not_ what I said!”

“Perhaps not, but you certainly implied it.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Niketa said, with a slow, formal nod.

“Well, that’s two voices on my side,” Vivianne said, raising an eyebrow at Cornelia. “Anyone else care to add to the discussion? Isolde? Do you have an opinion?”

Isolde, who was half-sprawled on Fabius’s lap, looked up. “I don’t have the problems with lipstick that Niketa mentioned – but I use Dark Moon’s long wear line, so, there’s that. But as for the rest …” She gestured to her own rumpled clothing and mussed hair. Fabius wasn’t in much better shape.

“Case in point, I would think,” Vivianne said.

Cornelia was gaping, but she put herself enough together to huff. “I—I can’t believe you’re suggesting that I’m dating Blake just to make you jealous!”

“Honestly, Vivianne, that’s so childish,” Blake added. “What—do you really think that after dating you, the only reason I’d date anyone else would be to make you jealous?”

Vivianne raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t be ridiculous, Blake. I know exactly why you’d date someone. It’s because even you can only put up with the company of your wand hand for so long.”

“ _Oooh,_ ” came the cry from across the common room.

“As for whether the two of you are dating in order to make me jealous … well … _I_ never said anything of the kind.” Vivianne put her hand over her heart and let her eyes go wide and innocent. “You two are the only ones who said that. I think that rather speaks for itself.”

Blake’s jaw fell, but Cornelia’s eyes blazed. “Belle!”

“What?” Belle replied, jumping a little.

“Tell her— _tell her_ —” Cornelia ground her teeth. “Do you hear what she’s saying? Tell her to knock it off!”

Vivianne allowed her gaze to go to Belle, who was staring at Cornelia with a dropped jaw. “Tell _her_ to knock it off? Cornelia!”

Vivianne’s eyes went wide. That … was not what she had been expecting to hear …

“Don’t you even _think_ —”

“Yes! Yes, I do!” Belle shouted. “Believe it or not, I do have a thought in my head every now and then! And you know what? I think you’re completely out of line! Merlin, Cornelia!” Belle’s lips were starting to quiver. “Don’t you think Vivianne has been through enough for one bloody term? She gets poisoned by love potion—her grandmother was murdered, her uncle is a suspect—she gets attacked by some— _monster_ that comes running out of the Forest—and you think _now_ is the time for you to start snogging her ex-boyfriend in full view of the common room? Even if you’re head over heels in love with him, Cornelia, you didn’t have to do that!”

“But—but our friendship,” Cornelia stammered, “isn’t that more important—”

“I don’t know, Cornelia, is it?” Belle asked. “You’re the one who keeps pushing! You’re the one spreading rumors! You’re the one— _Merlin_!” And with that, Belle stumbled to her feet and dashed toward the corridor to the girls’ dormitories, pushing Cornelia and Blake roughly out of the way.

“Belle?” Cornelia gasped.

“Now you’ve done it,” Vivianne snapped, following in Belle’s wake, “you’ve made Belle cry. I hope you’re happy with yourself.”

“But—but I—”

Vivianne didn’t listen. She had more important things to worry about – like finding Belle.

She did, however, hear Sybilla fit in a parting shot as she hurried after Vivianne. “Oh—Claudia?”

“Me?” There was no imagining the tone of surprise.

“We might have a bed opening up in our dorm soon. If it does, would you like to take it?”

“You WOULDN’T!” Cornelia gasped.

“Watch me, Cornelia. Well, Claudia?”

And even as she was rushing into the dorm, finding Belle standing in the middle of the room and trying not to cry, Vivianne couldn’t help but smirk when she heard Claudia’s reply.

“You know what? I think I would.”

* * *

“So, I gotta ask: just how long do you think it’ll take Dara to learn, because we’re fast approaching things happening to her that we won’t know how to take off of her.” Juliette sighed.

“Though you have to admit that she’s trying to get into that dorm a lot less frequently.” Trevor smiled ruefully.

“She just spent an hour as a _chicken_ ,” Juliette reminded him. “I’d have learned to stay away long before anything turned me into flightless fowl.”

“Mostly flightless,” Spencer corrected.

“I bet your snogging sessions are just you and Sybilla sitting there correcting each other’s facts.” Juliette tipped her mug of cocoa back. Spencer watched her, waiting, Zach noticed, until her mouth was full.

Then he struck. “Nah, not really. That’s more foreplay, after the snogging, before the steamy bits.”

As could probably have been expected, Juliette spewed her mouthful of cocoa out, earning Spencer glares from everyone else as they either had to quickly dodge or got sprayed with the contents of Juliette’s mouth.

“ _Merde_! I hate you.” Juliette took out her wand and started cleaning up the cocoa on her sweatshirt.

“I know,” Spencer said, looking remarkably unperturbed by the declaration.

“If I didn’t know the two of you were like siblings I would swear you wanted to shag each other.” Titan shook his head. “So, Zach, dude – you haven’t packed your guitar yet, right?”

“I’m not going home, so, no,” Zach admitted.

Titan held up a drumstick and looked hopeful. “Tommy’s got a new piece, and he might or might not have time for jam sessions with his dorky kid brother. So …”

Zach smiled and nodded, before climbing to his feet and heading for his dorm.

Coming back to the common room with a guitar in hand tended to catch people’s attention – and today was no different. A little pocket of anticipatory silence followed as he made his way back to the couch he and Juliette had been sharing.

“Anything in particular you want to play?” Zach asked as he tuned the guitar.

“Dude. It’s Christmas,” Titan said. Zach nodded in understanding.

Playing, unfortunately, occupied only a portion of his attention—the rest of it was mostly roiling with thoughts of his mother.

Ever since he had first learned to play the guitar, Christmas morning, after he opened his small number of gifts, before his aunt stuck her head in the door, still in a housecoat, sometimes hair still in rollers – what was it that he’d heard Ben say? The bigger the hair, the closer to God? – to tell them that brunch was ready, Zach would sit on the floor right next to the fireplace in their tiny little front sitting room, made all the tinier by the tree, and play every Christmas carol he could play for his mum. Would she miss him this Christmas?

Or would she, like his dad, think of him as little and fleetingly as possible?

And that led to other thoughts – would Michael remember to send his gift on time? Would this be a repeat of third year, when he had forgotten to get Zach anything at all?

At least until Aunt Beth had inquired as to what Zach had gotten, and Zach, not knowing any better, had admitted that his gift from his dad hadn’t gotten there. She might have had one or two too many cocktails at brunch that day, because she’d gone over to the store and Rachel said you could hear her cussing Michael out from next door, with the windows closed – on both buildings.

He’d heard her tell his mum, later, when he was supposed to be helping his uncle with bringing in firewood – but Uncle Gavin had gotten caught up in talking to Bert and Samuel and had stopped splitting wood – that he hadn’t even remembered that he hadn’t sent Zach anything.

Zach had gone out to the docks, and Jon had found him there. And Zach had used a bunch of words he probably shouldn’t have known – and Jon, ever the scholar, had taught him a few more.

It was stupid to think that his mother could ever be like his father – and yet …

He’d face that when he came to it; right now, he was just going to focus on the warm, comfortable basement, on his friends and housemates, on the sound of the guitar accompanied by Titan’s drumbeats, and just faintly the sound of the wind whipping around Hogwarts.

All looking down the road to tomorrow and tomorrow would do was make him miss right now.

* * *

Her books had been carefully selected.

Her clothes had been carefully laid out and the days had been counted out – twice.

Everything had at least one Featherweight Charm cast on it, because the charm had to last throughout the Christmas holiday – she couldn’t count on her mum being able to renew it before she had to get back to school.

Her planner had been checked and checked again to make sure all the work she had to do over the holiday had been safely accounted for. She had tried not to wince when she saw the empty spots for Potions work.

But finally, convinced that everything was set, Rowan had packed her truck, leaving out only Darwin’s cage and the clothes she planned to wear in the morning.

Feeling more than a little exhausted, she made her way back to the common room – unusually loud, with more than one person singing off-key and Christmas crackers going off right and left – to the little alcove where she knew she would find her friends.

They were all present and accounted for, and Rowan knew she shouldn’t be surprised. The boys wouldn’t waste any time with packing. Candice would be of the opinion that packing was something that could be completed the next day. And Blair—

Well, Blair was one of the boys now, or would be soon enough.

Rowan made her way to the couch where Jon sat and collapsed by his side.

“Made your list and checked it twice?” Jon asked, his eyes twinkling.

Rowan snickered. “And I know n-n-now who’s naughty and n-nice, if I didn’t b-before.”

“Is the homework situation that bad for the sixth years?” Aubrey asked, glancing from Quill to Jon to Rowan.

Quill shrugged. “Could be worse.”

“W-was worse, last year,” Rowan nodded.

“I’m not sure – the project Professor Pythagoras assigned is going to be a bit of a bear,” Jon answered, wincing.

“Maybe, but Rowan and I aren’t in his class,” Quill pointed out.

Jon nodded, conceding the point.

“And what about you?” asked Blair, nudging Candice. “How is your homework situation looking?”

“Meh,” Candice replied. Rowan frowned – Candice had her laptop open again and was fiddling with the insides, her tongue was partly out in concentration. “Just a couple of essays – a few chapters to read for Potions. I can probably get them all done on the train ride back.”

“Candice!”

“What? I probably can!”

Blair shook her – _his_ , Rowan reminded herself; they still hadn’t talked about pronouns, but the sooner Rowan got used to using the opposite ones, even just in her mind, the better – head. “Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.”

“Blair’s right,” Aubrey replied. “You’re a Ravenclaw. Understand the difference between ‘can’ and ‘should’ is what separates us from the Gryffindors … and possibly the Slytherins, too.”

“Mmm,” Jon shook his head. “Depends on what you mean by ‘can’ and ‘should.’”

“Are we _seriously_ going to argue about the meaning of basic verbs?” Quill asked, raising one eyebrow.

“Well—it really depends on whether you’re talking about whether something is the _smart_ thing to do or whether it’s the _right_ thing to do—”

Quill let his raised eyebrow do the talking for him, then he turned to Rowan. “So—have you figured out whether you’re going home with your mum or dad yet?”

Rowan opened her mouth, but after a second’s hesitation, she brought her knees up and wrapped her arms around her legs. “N-n-not yet.”

“Aww, why not?” Aubrey asked. “Well—maybe that’s a stupid question …”

Blair smacked him on the arm. Aubrey turned back to Blair with a grin – and Blair had to snicker.

But the question called for an answer, because if there was any one thing that a good Ravenclaw ought to believe, it was that there were no stupid questions. (Stupid answers, however, were another story.) So Rowan took a deep breath. “I … I d-d-dunno. I know that it’s g-going to be another argument with my d-dad … but at the same time … escaping to the M-Muggle world for a b-bit sounds … nice …”

“Hey, honey bear,” Jon said, rubbing her back, “you know if you ever want to get away for a bit, you can always come to Swona. It’s gonna be lonely without Zach.”

Rowan smiled, but only for a second. She shrugged. “I g-guess—it’s g-going to sound awfully s-silly—but what I really w-want right now is to see my m-mum.”

Any one of them could have said what was said next. But Rowan wasn’t surprised that Quill answered first.

“That’s not silly.”

He was tracing a pattern on his sleeve – right above where he had the tattoo commemorating his own mother.

Rowan smiled at him and he smiled back.

For the moment, that seemed to be all that needed to be said. Rowan rested her head on Jon’s shoulder, staring into the flames crackling merrily in the hearth. Aubrey yawned and stretched out. Blair actually brought her – _his_ legs up onto the couch, sitting cross-legged. Quill and Jon both watched the flames.

And then Rowan realized it was too quiet. Because while the rest of them might see the value of silence …

Candice usually did not.

Rowan glanced at the younger girl. Candice had closed up the back of the laptop and had opened it up so the screen faced her. She was muttered a couple of spells and waved her wand. Then – with a split second of hesitation – she brought her finger down on what had to be the power button.

Candice watched the screen, brow furrowed in concentration.

A pale blue light washed over Candice’s face.

Rowan blinked.

Candice’s jaw fell.

Rowan sat up.

“Oh my— _oh_ my—” Candice started.

Rowan jumped up and ran to the other couch, tripping on a throw rug and barely catching herself before she fell face-first onto Candice’s laptop and from thence her lap.

“What—Candice, what is that thing doing?” Blair asked, shifting away. Aubrey tried to glance around Blair’s head, only to shift away as well.

Candice’s hands were balled into fists and she was staring at the screen. Suddenly, her fingers shot out and typed something.

Rowan arrived at the couch just in time to see the login screen disappear. For a few heart-pounding seconds, nothing happened.

Then the desktop display that _had_ to be Candice’s – if only because Rowan doubted anyone else on the planet would have a background that seemed to be hastily-thrown-together mashup of _Top Gear_ and _Doctor Who_ and _Monty Python_ with _Pirates of the Caribbean_ thrown in for good measure – flickered into life, followed by rows of icons – the familiar symbols for Word and Excel and PowerPoint, and a bunch of documents, and tiny pictures that Rowan couldn’t make out, and many more icons she couldn’t recognize.

Candice was drawing in a slow, ragged breath.

“What—what on earth _is_ that?” asked Blair. “Candice? What’s it doing?”

And then Candice found her voice. “What _is_ that? What IS that? It’s a Christmas miracle!” She threw her hands in the air. “That’s what it fucking is! _A Christmas miracle_!”

“Candice!” Blair yelped.

“Look at this! _Look_!” Candice was bouncing in her seat, and Jon and Quill both jumped up to have a look. “It’s all here! All my programs, all my files! Everything! And—OH MY GOD!”

Candice’s fingers darted to the touchpad and she raced the cursor over to a blue-and-orange icon. “The cat videos! I have to show you the cat videos!”

“W-what, all of them?” Rowan heard herself asking.

“Cat—videos?” Aubrey repeated.

“Candice,” Quill said, very gently, all things considered, “if you show us all the cat videos, we’re going to be here all _year_ , never mind all night.”

“All c-century, more l-like,” Rowan murmured.

“Really?” Jon asked. “There’s a century’s worth of cat videos? There can’t be.”

Rowan and Quill exchanged glances. Quill bobbed his head from side to side as he puzzled out the problem. “… I wouldn’t be surprised if there were,” he finally pronounced.

“Oh!” Candice called out – apparently she hadn’t paid any attention to what they were saying – “and _Top Gear_! I know some of their funnier bits have to have made it onto YouTube! I can show you—well, I can bloody well show you lot _something_ , and— _what are you doing_?!?”

Rowan’s gaze locked onto the screen. And for a second she sighed in relief. There wasn’t a blue screen of death, or a dozen different error messages clamoring for Candice’s attention, or even a black, blank screen.

There was, however, a faintly apologetic message from the browser, urging Candice to check her connection.

“Oh … C-Candice,” Rowan murmured.

“Candice,” Quill pointed out, “how is Hogwarts going to have Wi-Fi when you’re the first person to get a laptop to work?”

“But …” Candice started.

“What’s going on?” Jon whispered to Rowan.

Knowing that Jon wouldn’t be the only one asking the question, Rowan answered it out loud. “She c-can’t get onto the Internet—because—um … there’s n-no way to c-connect.”

“Yet,” Quill added. “Think about it this way, Candice – you just found your project for next term.”

“But …” Candice began.

“Quill!” Blair yelped. “She needs to focus on her studies next term! OWLs aren’t far away!”

“Aww, come on, Blair, live a little,” Aubrey said, nudging Blair. “Candice just managed to get a piece of electronic … something-or-other … mostly working, _at Hogwarts_. That’s beyond bloody NEWT level, that is. If she applies herself for a week before the exams, she’ll master all the spells and potions that will actually be on them.”

“That won’t help her with the theory portion!” Blair snapped. “And that’s half the exam! That’s _all_ of the exam for some subjects!”

“C-Candice will be fine,” Rowan said, patting Candice’s shoulder. “She’s a s-smart girl. She’ll figure it out. J-just like—”

The clock on the mantel began to chime the hour – midnight – and all of them paused to let it finish.

“W-we should probably get to bed,” Rowan murmured.

“But …” Candice gasped, staring at the apologetic browser message.

“C-come on, Candice.” Rowan gently pushed the laptop screen forward and closed it. “Your l-laptop’s gone to b-bed now, and s-so should you.”

“But I—but I just _got_ somewhere.”

“And tomorrow, you’re going home to use your laptop for a couple of blessed, glorious weeks,” Quill replied. “Who knows? You can use the time to hack into some government database and figure out how they—I dunno—use laptops in high-radiation environments. Or something.”

“Q-Quill!” Rowan gasped.

“What—what did he just suggest?” Blair asked.

“S-something _very_ d-dangerous and _very_ illegal! C-Candice—don’t even _think_ about it!”

“But …” Candice started. Then she trailed off, sighing.

“Hey,” Quill said. “Chin up, Candice. You got that bloody thing to boot! In only a term! That’s—that’s impressive!”

Candice looked up.

And slowly but surely, she grinned.

“I got the bloody thing to boot!” she repeated.

“And we’re all really proud of you,” Jon added. “Even Blair, for all that—um—Blair might not want to admit it.”

Blair watched Candice’s face. And slowly, Blair smiled as well.

“I’ll admit it,” Blair said. “I don’t understand what it was you did—but whatever it was, it must have involved some pretty powerful magic, to get past all the magical residue at Hogwarts—and you did it. Now, if we can get you to put half of that brainpower toward your studies next term, you’ll pass all your OWLs with flying colors; I know you will.”

“Next term …” Candice murmured.

She glanced at her laptop.

Her grin widened.

“Next term,” she declared, “is going to be _amazing_.”


	44. Chapter 43: All Quiet on the Western Front

**Chapter 43: All Quiet on the Western Front**

“It’s okay, Ben, r-really. I’ll go d-down by myself.” Rowan looked up at him earnestly.

“Okay, so, what? Candice bounced off the wall and into your head?” Ben asked. Rowan and Zach looked at him with matching arched eyebrows. “You got hit with some sort of hex? Jinx? Got a lobotomy?”

“What are you g-going on about, B-Ben?” Rowan finally asked.

“Sweetheart, I fully accept that you are a strong, smart, capable woman, but this hasn’t been a Gorlois-positive year. I would feel much better, however, if, you know, you kept to strength in numbers. If not ‘us’ numbers – because, fucking Rove – then _anyone_ who is not likely to knock you unconscious and feed you to the tiger thing in the woods,” Ben told her, shoving his fists into the pockets of his jeans.

If there was a reason, other than Rove was a prick, that the cauldrons had to be hauled, by hand, out of the dungeons to be given their bi-yearly sandblasting, Ben had never heard of it. He was actually pretty sure that the headmaster had just invented the whole thing upon seeing Ben and Zach waiting with Rowan. She had wanted to remind Jon that he was as welcome to her couch as she was to his over the holidays.

Ben and Zach hadn’t had anything pressing to do, so they’d waited. But them loitering by the door apparently was too great an opportunity to pass up for the headmaster, and he’d roped the two of them into what was more than likely made-up bullshit for the sake of putting Ben to work. Poor Zach was probably just roped in by proximity and the fact that it would leave Rowan alone.

“You w-w-worry too much,” Rowan told him bluntly. “And I’m n-not a Gorlois.” Ben quirked an eyebrow. “I’m not, not—r-r-really.”

“Well, you’re close enough to get sucked into the whirlpool of drama from them, so, just, okay, wait for Jon, please?”

“I was g-going to.” Rowan smiled and lifted up onto her toes to peck Ben’s cheek. “He w-w-worries too much.” Rowan wrinkled her nose at Zach, who smiled faintly and shook his head.

“It’s not like he doesn’t have reason to worry about you,” Zach added quietly.

“Not y-you too! I’ll be fine. P-promise,” Rowan told him.

Zach’s smile increased slightly, but then he sighed and jerked his head in the direction of the nearest stairs down into the dungeons. Ben nodded in agreement. It was Ben’s turn to impart a kiss on the cheek and a tight hug.

“I’ll see you after you get back. Don’t fall for any handsome Muggle doctors or anything if you do go back to London,” Ben teased over his shoulder.

“If I d-do stay with my mum, I’ll s-send Darwin up. Maybe Professor Lipskit can g-give you two a pass to c-c-come down to Hogsmeade. Mum can f-fire up the Super 8 and show you all her f-favorite Ed Wood m-movies.”

“Oh boy!” Ben turned around and gave his best “Desi’s making me go shopping with her again and I’m not even pretending I’m ecstatic” look to Rowan.

She grinned at him, but waved.

“So,” Zach scrubbed his hand through his hair, “um, things seem to be going well between you two.”

“Well enough. She doesn’t even mind my British accent when I’m doing movie quotes –which is the real test of a relationship, lemme tell you.”

“Doing a British accent is the real test of a relationship?” Zach asked, his all-too-perfect eyebrow arching over his dark blue eyes. The faint hit of Scots brogue was clear mostly only to people who lived in the British Isles and had a constant stream of accents to compare it to.

“No, no, _me_ doing a British accent. In case you hadn’t noticed, there ain’t a lot in common between British accents and Southern ones.”

“That’s kinda egotistical, isn’t it?” Zach teased. “There are other Souths besides one in the United States.”

“Meh, none really worth mentioning. Besides, Mr. Duncan,” Ben drawled. “I’m from _Texas_ ; egotistical is one of our known traits. Texas is the best place in the world – just ask any Texan.”

“If I’m only asking Texans, doesn’t that somewhat skew the results?” Zach’s eyebrow arched a little bit more.

“What, now you want to include shit like fairness and equality? We’re talking about Texas, Zach. You just don’t do that.”

Zach shook his head as they hit the dungeon.

“So—are you disappointed that you’re staying here for Christmas?”

“Nah, Christmas here is fine. Food’s good. I have the tower almost all to myself. No one to complain about me counting out loud as I’m doing reps in my dorm. And biggest note of all: no old bat,” Ben told him, honestly.

“Your grandmother? Rowan’s mentioned her a couple of times before.” Zach scrubbed again at his hair. If he did that one more time, he would look like a Hollywood casting of a young Einstein.

“Yep. And I’m doubly glad for it this year, because she’s been a tad bit more of a bitch than usual.” Ben shrugged.

“You know, I really shouldn’t be letting you swear.”

“Take off the prefect panties, princess. You’ve heard the words before, ten bucks says you’ve probably said them, and it’s you, me, and maybe Peeves to hear ‘em.”

“Okay, point.” Zach shook his head again. “Wait, ‘princess’?”

“You have the looks for it. I wouldn’t be surprised if Disney casts you in something in the next few years.”

* * *

Belle yawned. As if on cue, so did Vivianne.

Sybilla didn’t yawn, but she took a long, fortifying sip from the flask that Vivianne was guessing was filled with coffee.

It had been a bloody long night. It seemed that all the stress from the last term – everything that Belle had seen and heard and been forced to say – had all caught up to her at once, and she’d cried for a solid hour. Vivianne and Sybilla had tried to be comforting, but, well, comforting was not their strong suit. They usually left that sort of thing to Belle.

But after the crying had come the talking. And the talking. And then Cornelia had tried to get into the dorm to make things up. Belle had loudly refused to have any part of it.

That led to yet more talking.

Part of Vivianne still couldn’t believe that Belle was ready to be done with Cornelia. She understood where Sybilla was coming from, moving ruthlessly to undercut an enemy the moment she showed weakness. If Cornelia had set off a chain reaction that led to Vivianne’s mother finding out about her half-blood boyfriend, Vivianne would have done the same thing. But Belle …

Belle hadn’t been the one directly injured in any of this. But she was fine with there not being any more mercy.

Maybe that was why.

“I don’t want to hear it from you,” Sybilla said as Vivianne yawned again, then shivered. Even though the courtyard was crowded with students waiting for the horseless carriages to take them to the train station, it was still bitterly cold. “You can go right back to take a nap as soon as we all leave.”

“You all can sleep on the train,” Vivianne replied.

“Hardly. I’m sitting with Spencer and his friends. They’re not likely to be very quiet.”

Belle perked up a bit at the news, but instantly deflated again—and Vivianne realized why.

“You can join us, Belle, you know that,” said Sybilla. “You can even bring Jamesie.”

Belle shook her head. “He already told me he would be with his lads on the team. And Claudia.”

“Who will probably be looking to escape as soon as she can and join us,” Sybilla answered. “So all the more reason for you to sit with us. Spencer, Juliette, Shae, Krem, Titan – Trevor – they would all love to see you.”

Something about the way Sybilla said the last name made Vivianne shoot her a hard look, but Sybilla’s expression was as impassive as ever.

“You’re sure they won’t mind?” Belle asked, sounding more than a little wistful.

“Not if they know what’s good for them,” Vivianne replied.

“ _Vivianne_. You’re not going to hex all of Zach’s friends just because they’re not nice to me.”

“Of course she won’t,” Sybilla answered. “There won’t be anything left of them for her to hex after I’m done with them.”

“Sybilla!”

Vivianne hesitated, but because Belle looked like she needed it, she put an arm around her shoulder. “We do it because we love you, Belle. And anyone who doesn’t love you as well as we do will have to face the business ends of our wands.”

Belle smiled, wan, and leaned her head on Vivianne’s shoulder. “What would I do without you guys?”

“Probably have a great deal less drama in your life,” Sybilla answered. “But really, it’s us who should be wondering what we would do without you.”

Belle shook her head and rolled her eyes, as she always did when they said things like that, but for the moment, that seemed to be all that needed to be said.

Professor Flitwick appeared soon after in the door that led to the grounds. “All right, ladies and gentlemen! The carriages are here! Line up in an orderly fashion – and of course, have a great holiday!”

The courtyard exploded into activity as the students who were going home started to line up, charming trunks and bags and other detritus to accompany them, and the students who were staying behind (those who had braved the cold, anyway) tried not to look too glum. Vivianne got up and gave Belle a hug. “Happy Christmas, Belle. Give my love to your family.”

“Thanks, Vivianne. You have a good Christmas, too. Make sure you catch Zach under the mistletoe at least once.”

Next, Sybilla. “Happy Christmas, Vivianne.”

“Happy Christmas.” Another hug, this one a lot briefer and perhaps a little stiffer, but no less real for all of that. “Enjoy your holiday. And when you see Spencer, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Oh, Vivianne, I’m very much afraid we’re well past that stage.”

And while Vivianne gaped and wondered just what exactly Sybilla meant by that, Sybilla hooked her arm into Belle’s and went off, presumably to find Spencer and their friends.

Shaking her head, Vivianne sat down on the bench. The courtyard was too much of a madhouse for her to try to make her way back into the school now. She would wait.

That was why she was still in earshot as a familiar group of Ravenclaws – minus one short, blonde one – made their way to the courtyard exit.

Candice was looking rather glum. “I just can’t believe she left without saying goodbye. I thought—I thought if she decided to go with her mum, she would have sent Darwin to us or something.”

“Candice,” said Blair, “she’s probably busy. I mean, she and her mum have a lot to talk about.”

“They could even be doing something fun. Like Christmas shopping,” Aubrey pointed out. “There are lots of fun things you can do when you’re not sitting on a train all day.”

Quill dragged a hand down his face, and even Vivianne could hear the faint rasp. “Don’t bloody remind me. At least you lot don’t have to get right on another train to actually get home.”

“The whole Hogwarts Express thing is _totally_ designed for witches and wizards,” Candice agreed, making Vivianne wonder just whom else it would be designed for.

“Still,” Jon sighed, and Vivianne was a little surprised. She’d never seen him look quite so openly disappointed before. Then again, Jon did tend to shield his feelings very well, almost as good as a Gorlois. “I wish I could have gotten down in time to walk Rowan to Hagrid’s cottage. If only Owen’s Exploding Snap deck hadn’t, well, exploded …”

Quill patted Jon’s shoulder. “Cheer up, Jonny boy; things’ll go better next time. Besides—there’s nothing to worry about. Her bloody linebacker boyfriend would have walked her down, so you know she got there all right.”

“Wow,” Candice said, “that’s gotta be the nicest thing I’ve heard you say about Ben.”

With that, the crowd of students pushed them forward, and they passed out of Vivianne’s earshot.

She yawned again, but there was light at the end of the tunnel. The Ravenclaw students were close to the end of the line. In a few minutes, the crowd would thin enough for Vivianne to get back inside.

Then, she’d have a nap, and after that …

Well, she’d never stayed at Hogwarts before, so she wasn’t sure what would come “after that.” But she was sure there would be something fun or interesting going on.

This was Hogwarts. There always was.

* * *

“And the hands-down best part of staying at Hogwarts is the sleeping in,” Ben finished with a grin.

“Sleeping in?” Zach asked, puzzled. Ben was always up before he was, and Zach didn’t think of himself as sleeping in terribly late; he was usually one of the first to breakfast from Hufflepuff.

“Relatively speakin’. If I went home for the holiday, I would get up at four-thirty just like everyone else. Animals need feed and water whether it’s Christmas or not. Our milkers need milkin’, the horses need to be put out to the pasture. All of that is done in the morning before breakfast,” Ben told him. “Here, I can sleep ‘til six-thirty, work out a little, take a shower, and be down in time for breakfast to still be hot.”

“Uh—wow. And I thought helping in my mum’s shop was hard.” Zach shook his head.

“Yep, although it does add an odd spice of appreciation to that rib roast my aunt serves on Christmas.” Ben gave a lopsided grin. “Well, it seems your one o’clock is here, and I have a History of Magic essay that isn’t going to write itself, more’s the pity. Six footer; apparently Binns isn’t the spirit of the holidays.”

“My one o’clock?” Zach asked.

“Your friend Miri is lurking by the door.” Ben jerked his chin at the younger Hufflepuff, who waved shyly. He got up with no indication that he’d been hauling cast iron cauldrons for three hours. Zach never thought himself a slouch, used to helping at the shop or with his uncle or just hauling firewood, but Ben had taken three cauldrons for every one of Zach’s and seemed to shrug the whole thing off like it was nothing.

Ben ruffled Miri’s hair on his way out, and she glanced at him with big gray eyes and a shy smile.

“So, Hogwarts seem empty to you?” Zach asked as she climbed up onto the sofa next to Zach.

“Yeah. But at least there’s some people here.” Miri looked at the toes of her trainers. “My gramma goes to visit her sisters every Christmas—and it’s better than takeaway and an empty flat, you know?”

“Yeah. Sounds like visiting my dad.” Zach sighed. “But Christmas with my mum—it always kinda made up for it,” he admitted.

“So if you’re not with your dad—why did you stay?” Miri asked curiously, cocking her head to one side.

“I was supposed to go to my dad’s, but—he didn’t want to spend the holiday with me. He played it off as it’s just work—but he’s done this too many times for me to believe it.” Zach suddenly glanced hard at Miri; normally he didn’t talk about stuff like this with anyone – not even Jon. He knew a lot of people had it worse than he did. His dad was still alive; he didn’t hate Zach, didn’t abuse Zach, was only cruel in that casual “I don’t care enough to be malicious” way.

And he did have his mum, who more than made up for his dad and all his douchebaggery.

“Parents suck sometimes.” Miri frowned thoughtfully. “But why didn’t you go home to see your mum?”

_In for a penny, in for a pound._ Zach thought. “She’s got a new boyfriend—and well, even if I know that my mum is not my dad, even if I know that my mum would never do the things my dad has done …” Zach leaned his head back on and closed his eyes.

“You don’t want to face it, not right now, not look for your mum to be different every time you turn around.”

“Something like that,” Zach admitted, looking at the younger girl.

“I know Henry won’t be at the flat. But last year, when he was deployed at Christmas, I still expected him to be there. It’ll be worse this year,” Miri told him with a faint smile. “So, did Vivianne say anything more about—teaching me those spells?”

“She said she’d be in the dungeons if—you still wanted to learn them. Far away from anyone who might—object to her teaching you those spells.” Zach smiled.

“And what about you?” Miri asked as Zach stood up and offered her a hand; she bounced off the sofa with the energy of a first-year, especially one who hadn’t been trying to keep it at one cauldron for every three of Ben’s.

“I know why she’s doing it; I even understand the logic. However, as one of your prefects, I’m gonna pretend very, very hard that I don’t know what’s going on,” Zach told her.

“It’s okay, Zach. If we wait for Dara to learn, we’ll all look like the portrait of Dumbledore in Headmaster Rove’s office.”

“I need to remind Spencer to keep Sybilla away from you.” Zach tilted his lips up at the side.

“Don’t, please?” Miri said. “She’s awesome. And really funny, in a not-funny way. Not like—Ben is funny. But …”

“In a dry, thoroughly British way?” Zach offered. Miri nodded and pulled Henry’s lucky cap out of the back of her jeans, putting it on backward. “So, am I gonna need to worry about you turning into Sybilla?”

“Henry used to say, it was quote—but I can’t remember who said it—that it’s better to be a first-rate you than a second-rate someone else. I’d be a lousy Sybilla,” Miri admitted.

“I’m actually kinda glad for that. I don’t know how many evil geniuses we really need.” Zach smiled faintly.

“But you know, at least Sybilla’s an evil genius who—sees the—uh—the …” Miri trailed off.

“Futility?” Zach offered.

“What’s that mean?”

“Pointlessness, sorta.”

“Then, yeah, futility works,” Miri said. “The futility of the evil genius tropes.”

“The what?”

“Tropes. They’re like—clichés. Sorta.” Miri gave him a cheeky grin with the sorta. “But as evil and geniusy as Sybilla is—she’s not gonna be making them put more plaques up on the walls of the school.”

“Very true. If only we could make evil people be either smart enough to not try and take things over or too dumb to be taken seriously,” Zach told her.

“Then we’d have a lot of out-of-work heroes.” Miri shook her head and stuffed her hands into the kangaroo pocket of her hoodie as a draft ran straight down the hall.

“I think the heroes—anyone who really is one—would be glad for the unemployment,” Zach said.

“I know,” she whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold onto your butts, everyone - it's a Two-For Tuesday! Another chapter will be going up as soon as it gets one last edit.


	45. Chapter 44: I Have a Bad Feeling About This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wondering what happened to Chapter 43? It's a Two-For Tuesday, so it's already been posted! Just hit the back button. Don't worry, we'll wait.

**Chapter 44: I Have a Bad Feeling About This**

_No post on Sundays._ Robert O’Blake always wondered in the back of his mind whether that rule applied to owls. But he was quite certain that rule applied to the human beings in charge of places where those who did not own an owl might rent one. So it was not until Monday that he went, letter in his pocket and bundled thoroughly against the biting wind, to the place where he always found himself going when he needed to get in touch with his ex-wife and Rowan wasn’t at home to work the flue.

The London Muggle Owl Post.

The Muggle Owl Post was on Charing Cross Road, not far from the Leaky Cauldron – and like the Leaky Cauldron, it looked like an old, broken-down shopfront if one didn’t know what it was. It was the sort of place most people would walk right by. Robert assumed that was the point.

But – like the Leaky Cauldron – once Robert stepped inside and stamped the slush off his shoes, he entered another world.

As always, Robert looked around a little blearily, squinting through his glasses in the dim light. He assumed the light was dim for the sake of the owls, but he knew he could easily be wrong. It was still dark outside today, the darkest day of the year, and while magic was a great substitute for technology in some instances, lighting wasn’t one of them. There was a reason the Muggle world discarded candles as soon as a feasible alternative presented itself.

He’d learned the hard way not to mention that to his ex-wife or his daughter, though.

“Robert!” said a cheerful voice from behind the counter.

Robert looked up and smiled a little wanly at the woman in the tall witch’s hat who waved to him. He waved back. Good old Iris; she’d been here ever since he started coming after his divorce. She’d always been friendly, too – which according to Rowan and Elaine, was not necessarily a given for witches and wizards dealing with Muggles. Though one would _hope_ that wizards (Robert could never quite get used to calling the women _witches_ , especially when they’d done nothing to earn the title in his eyes) who didn’t like Muggles wouldn’t apply for employment at a place that had “Muggle” literally written over the door …

Unfortunately, logic didn’t always apply when dealing with wizards. Or, really, most people in general.

“How’s the family, Iris?” he asked, even as he walked toward the row of owls he always selected from, the sturdy barn owls that could easily handle the flight to Scotland.

“Oh, well, well. Grandkids are looking forward to Christmas! My Mellie’s eldest just got back from her first term at Hogwarts, so we’re all looking forward to hearing her stories.” Iris chortled, a rich laugh that filled the shop and contrasted nicely with the soft coos and hoots that flew from rafter to rafter. “Say – that means your Rowan should be back home, doesn’t it? Or has she graduated already?”

“No, no—this is her sixth year,” Robert said. And didn’t say what he was actually thinking.

Rowan hadn’t come home.

He was hoping – _assuming_ – she was with her mother. With everything that had happened – Elaine’s mother dying, then it turning out to be murder; Rowan’s difficulty with that nasty piece of work of a professor – Robert told himself that it made sense she’d want to spend a day or two with her mother. Maybe even the whole holiday. Lord knew that Elaine didn’t have much family other than Rowan and some friends whom she called her fellow “war orphans.”

But Rowan hadn’t sent Darwin along to let him know she’d gone home with her mum. Neither she nor Elaine had used the flue. There hadn’t even been a call from a payphone, which sometimes happened.

That wasn’t like Rowan.

And that brought Robert to where he was now: in the Muggle Owl Post, staring at the owls. He was about to select a barn owl, but he paused.

“Say, Iris?” he asked.

“Yes, dear?”

“I need to get a message to my ex-wife—it’s rather urgent,” Robert explained. “She lives in Scotland, but she works in London.”

Iris didn’t even blink. Robert wondered why he was surprised.

“Her schedule can be rather—erratic—so I have no idea whether she’s working today or not. So—should I select a long-distance owl and send the letter to her house, or a local one and cross my fingers that she’s on the schedule today?”

Iris chuckled. “Doesn’t matter! The owl goes after the person, Robert, not the address.”

“… Ah,” Robert said, although why that left him nonplussed was a bit of a mystery. Surely the idea of an owl finding a person based on name alone was no more ludicrous than the owl finding the person based on the address. “So in that case …”

“Hire the barn owl,” Iris nodded to the owls on the shelf nearest Robert, “and if your ex-wife is in London, the owl will get the letter to her and be back in a jiffy. I’ll give you a credit if that’s the case. And if she’s in Scotland – well, your owl will get back when she gets back, and you’ll have gotten your money’s worth.”

“Iris, you don’t have to give me a credit.”

“Don’t be silly! It’s Christmas! Time to spread good cheer, that’s what I always say.”

Robert smiled – his first real smile since Rowan hadn’t gotten off the train at King’s Cross, since he hadn’t been able to find any of her friends on the platform to ask them where she was, and since he hadn’t heard anything from Darwin or anything or anyone else – and carefully coaxed one of the barn owls off the perch. This one looked enough like Darwin to have been his brother. Or sister, perhaps; Robert was getting better with owls, but guessing the sex of one was something he left to those wiser than he.

He brought the owl and his letter to the counter, letting Iris handle the delicate work of affixing letter to owl while Robert fiddled with his wallet. “Any chance of you taking a credit card today?”

“Oh, you’re such a joker! No, not today, and not for a long time to come. How are we going to make that work without electricity?”

“You know I’m just teasing.” Robert took a few banknotes from his wallet. “Honestly, I’m just grateful you take Muggle money. The last thing I want to do is get mugged and have the mugger wonder what I’m doing with gold, silver and bronze coins on me. Here—keep the change. Call it a Christmas tip.”

“Robert! You know you don’t have to do that.”

“Don’t be silly; one good turn deserves another. Thanks for your help, Iris; I do appreciate it. Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas, Robert,” Iris said, shaking her head. “I’ll be putting your change in the jar for St. Mungo’s.”

Robert smiled again, thinking of St. Mungo’s, of his little girl and her big dreams.

He said goodbye to Iris and headed back out onto the busy streets. He checked his watch. Good – if he caught the tube at the next station, he ought to be able to get to work on time, more or less.

And with any luck – he would have heard from Rowan and Elaine by the end of the day, or tomorrow at the latest.

Then he could finally stop worrying.

* * *

It was, at the very least, the sixth time he’d checked his watch. Waiting for someone to fire-talk you was always a little nerve-wracking. If it wasn’t important, most people just owled. The first Christmas that Zach had spent with his dad after they’d started school, back in second year, he and Jon had made a deal: they’d fire-talk a couple of times a week over the holiday.

Even though he was at Hogwarts and the holiday, thus far, had gone fine, he still found he wanted to chat with Jon, if for no other reason than to make sure that things were okay. When you put Stan and Jon in the same place … things tended to boil over more than an overfilled cauldron. The year that Stan and Rachel had divorced, Rachel had had to entirely replace their kitchen because Jon had lost control of his magic and exploded all of Stan’s alcohol, setting the kitchen on fire.

Not that Zach blamed him. Michael was a git who used and ignored his mother in equal measure the entire time that they were married, but Michael had never laid a hand on Wendy. Probably because Aunt Beth would have filleted him and fed the choicer parts to the sharks, but nonetheless.

Stan … hadn’t been so conscientious.

“Sorry, your mum put me to work moving boxes—just got in the new silks for the spring season,” Jon said suddenly from Zach’s left, and he yelped, causing the other two people in the common room to stare at him.

He pointed at the fireplace with a sheepish expression. “Sorry, mind elsewhere.”

“On your pretty Slytherin?” Jon batted his eyelashes.

“What my aunt would have done to Michael if he’d ever laid a finger on Mum, actually,” Zach admitted.

“Well, whatever she’d have done, I’d have paid money to see.” Jon grinned, though there was something in his face that told Zach that all was not well. “You should have seen her when the Rowle witch squad came breezing by this morning.”

He could imagine. Aunt Beth treasured a grudge, and even if Frida hadn’t been a torment to Rowan, Azalea Rowle had made herself enough of a nuisance that Aunt Beth would probably never forgive them.

“What’s wrong?” Zach asked.

“Oh, just—well, despite Mum’s best intentions—and Beth’s veiled threats—the island’s a bit small this year.” Jon shook his head.

“Well, you could stay with Rowan, if you need to. You know Robert doesn’t mind having you stay,” Zach said.

“… Robert?” Jon bit his lip and frowned. “I thought Rowan was staying with Elaine.”

“She said if she was staying with Elaine, she’d send Darwin up here, so Ben and I could see if Lipskit would get us a pass down to the village.” Zach echoed Jon’s frown. “I figured she went home to London.”

“But she wasn’t on the train. I mean, I guess Elaine could have walked her down to the village and Apparated back to London with her, if she was late.” Jon’s face was obscured from the nose down by his hand. Zach knew the pose well, his left hand would be cupping his elbow and both would be resting on his right knee, his left knee on the floor. “Great, we’ve lost her. Quill’s going to kill us, especially after we didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

“Wait, _what_?” Zach interrupted. Jon stared hard at him. “She said she’d wait for you guys in the lobby.”

“We thought you walked her down. You and John Wayne there.”

“We were going to, but Rove saw us waiting with Rowan and insisted that we _had_ to bring the cauldrons up from the dungeon by hand.” Zach scrubbed his hand though his hair.

“Oh, _Merlin_ ,” Jon said, speaking for both of them.

“We really are going to die,” Zach said.

“Some best friends we are.” Jon shook his head. “Can we hope that she’s just been super busy with Elaine or Robert and hasn’t had time to send a note around?”

“We can _hope,_ ” Zach told him.

“But—that really isn’t like honey-bear. Not the one who notes down what panties she’s taking with her on an overnight.” Jon said, more than likely because he _knew_ that it would cause Zach to blush painfully.

“It isn’t, but …” Zach bit his lip. “She promised.” It was barely a whisper over the crackling flames. “She promised Ben she’d wait for you.”

Jon’s face tightened, the ever-present smile nowhere to be seen.

“We’re assuming, Adonis,” Jon reminded. “And maybe we don’t have anything more to go on other than the assumption, but it’s still an assumption. And you know what assuming does.”

“Right, right. So, how is Mum?” Zach asked.

“Your mum is fine; she’s asked about you every time she saw me, though. Even asked Frida about you,” Jon told him, a faint hint of something like accusation in his tone.

“Sorry,” Zach said with a wince.

“She’s not _just_ moping over you; don’t let it go to your head. But I think she wishes you had come home. It’s one thing when you’re with your dad …” Jon said.

Zach scoffed. “To my mum, maybe. But would she really wish on me being alone in the guest room at my dad’s flat, hiding from Sarah, and never coming out except for meals and otherwise ignored by everyone? You know that’s what would have happened.”

“Yes, but somehow, even given everything, your mum is an optimist. Ever hopeful that your father will remove his head from his bum and treat you like a person instead of some inconvenient blowing gum under his shoe.”

“Bum?”

“I’m pretty sure your aunt and/or cousin is listening in right now,” Jon said. “So I’m keeping it clean.” He glanced over and to the side. “Would you like to say hi to Zach, Aunt Beth?”

“You are entirely too cheeky for your own good, Jonathon.” Aunt Beth’s head appeared briefly near Jon’s. “What are you boys looking so worried about?”

“We’ve lost Rowan. If we can’t find her before break is over with, Quill will have our heads.”

“Boys, she’s not a trainer. You don’t just lose people.” Aunt Beth shook her head, her coil of blonde braids rocking precariously, but unlikely to actually take to flight.

“Tell that to Quill.”

“That’s not your lad, is it?” Aunt Beth asked.

“No, _my_ lad is Austin. Quill’s the one with the tattoos that you said you’d like to take home and feed cookies to.”

Zach mimed putting his fingers in his ears, the laughter coming easily, but not entirely dispelling the fear that lurked. If they hadn’t walked her down … and Jon hadn’t walked her down …

* * *

_Pop!_

Elaine opened her eyes.

Good, she hadn’t been spotted. That was always the difficulty with Apparating in Muggle areas of London. Even when you thought you were in the clear, someone could always be watching.

Elaine tossed her scarf over her shoulder, muttered a spell to transfigure her long black cloak into a long black trench coat, plunged her hands into her pockets and hurried to the mouth of the alley where she had Apparated.

Robert’s office was only a block away.

And Robert’s letter was in her pocket.

Elaine had no idea how she had managed to keep calm when she read that letter, tossed casually into her inbox when the mid-afternoon mail drop came. She didn’t know how she put in for the rest of the afternoon off without somebody realizing that something was up. The only thing she supposed that saved her was the fact that she’d been in tighter spots before.

Maybe.

She certainly couldn’t remember being quite this frightened before.

But now was not the time to panic.

Robert’s office was just ahead.

Elaine bent her head and made her way through the nasty mix of slush, wet, and dank misery that flooded London’s streets from the months of November to March. Thankfully, she didn’t have to be buzzed into Robert’s building, so she was able to push the door open and slip into the warm.

There was, however, the receptionist to deal with.

Today’s receptionist was a young lady with dyed blonde hair and nails that were closer to talons. “Can I help you?” she asked, glancing Elaine up and down. There was no flash of puzzlement, which was good – but most Auror work clothes were designed to be inconspicuous in Muggle areas.

Elaine hurried toward the desk. “My name is Elaine O’Blake. I need to speak to my ex-husband – Robert O’Blake. It’s rather urgent. Can I go up?”

“Can I see some ID, ma’am?” the receptionist asked.

Without a word Elaine handed over her work ID – the one that was meant to be seen by Muggles.

The receptionist wrinkled her nose as she read it. “Auror Office? Never heard of it.”

“Most people haven’t.” Elaine took her ID back and rested her hand on the high counter, but deliberately did not tap her fingers against it. Not yet, anyway.

“Hmm.” The receptionist shrugged. “Let me give him a call.”

Elaine nodded, and still keeping herself from tapping her nails by force of will alone, she waited.

The receptionist lifted up the telephone, dialed something (Elaine was rather impressed with herself for remembering all these terms) and spoke in low tones into the mouthpiece. When she finally put it back – which seemed to take forever – she said, “He’ll be down in just a minute. Can I get you something? Water, tea?”

Elaine shook her head. “No, thank you.”

She glanced at the lifts, where Robert was practically certain to be coming down.

Her nails started to tap.

After some time had passed – maybe a few more seconds, maybe a minute, maybe an hour – Elaine started to pace.

“Is—is everything all right, Ms. O’Blake?” the receptionist asked.

Elaine looked up, having no idea how to answer that—

And at that moment one of the lifts chimed, the door opened, and Robert came spilling out. “Elaine? What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

He was looking well – a bit worried, a bit harried, but that was how Robert always looked. Once he hadn’t looked so worried all the time … but once was a long time ago. And Elaine supposed she was mostly to blame for that.

“Can we talk?” Elaine asked. “In private?”

Instead of answering, Robert turned to the receptionist. “Is there a conference room …?”

“Conference Room A ought to be free.”

Robert shot her a wan smile. “Thanks, Sophie. Elaine? This way.”

Robert headed down a corridor to the right, and Elaine followed him without a word.

“This one,” he said, holding the door open. Elaine nodded her thanks as she went in.

Robert followed and closed the door. “Now. Elaine, what’s—”

“Hold on.” Elaine drew her wand and pointed it at the door. “ _Muffliato! Repello Muggletum!_ ”

“Repel— _Elaine_! This is a Muggle workplace! You can’t cast a spell that will keep all of us away!”

In answer, Elaine pointed her wand at Robert. He yelped and jumped back. “Elaine!”

“Just one question before we get started,” Elaine said. “When did I tell you I wanted a divorce?”

“ _What_?” Robert demanded.

“Answer the question, Robert. When—”

“I heard the—” Robert sighed and ran a hand over his face. “The ninth of May, 1999.”

Elaine let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. “All right.” She put her wand down. “Sorry about that, but I had—”

“ _Sorry_?” Robert exploded. “You come barging in here, casting spells left and right, and then you—”

“I needed to make sure you were you,” Elaine interrupted. “Now, next question.”

“Next ques— _who else would I be_?”

“I have no idea, but considering my mother was murdered a month ago, can you blame me for being cautious?”

Robert’s jaw dropped. Then he closed his mouth again. Slowly. And gulped.

“Next question.” Elaine waved her wand at her pocket, and the letter she’d received floated out and unfolded itself. “Recognize this letter? _Don’t touch it_!”

“Don’t—” Robert stopped reaching for the letter and shook his head. “Yes. Yes, of course I recognize it! I sent it to you this morn ...”

He trailed off, not even completing the word. “Elaine … why are you here?”

_Oh, Merlin. Oh, God in—Merlin!_

Elaine watched as Robert’s chocolate brown eyes darted from letter to Elaine’s face and back to the letter.

And then he asked the question – his voice tight and just seconds away from quavering – that Elaine had been dreading him asking. “Where’s Rowan?”

And Elaine had no choice but to give the last answer she’d wanted to give.

“I don’t know.”

“What? You mean—but I thought she was—”

“She never made it to Hagrid’s hut,” Elaine said, running a hand through her hair. Her hand was trembling, but she tried to ignore it. “She—I waited until I heard the train leave from the station. I thought—I _thought_ she’d just decided to go home on the train.”

“She never got off the train!” Robert protested. “I waited on the platform until all the students were gone. She wasn’t there!”

Elaine swallowed and grabbed the back of a chair. “Robert,” she said slowly, carefully, as much to convince herself as to convince him, “now is not the time to panic.”

“Not the time to panic? _Not the time to panic_? She’s been missing since Saturday! It’s Monday! _Where is she_?” Robert’s hands were starting to shake. “We need to call the police!”

“No,” Elaine said, shaking her head.

“ _No_? No, no you’re right, not the police—your people! The—”

“No!” Elaine looked up. “I am not calling in a Code Wrackspurt unless I have to!”

“A— _what_?”

“Don’t ask! I’ve never figured out what a Wrackspurt is—but that doesn’t matter! It means kidnapping, Robert, and I am not calling that in until I bloody well have to!”

“Kid …” Robert started, and faltered.

“Anyway, there’s—there’s no reason to assume that’s what happened,” Elaine said, taking a deep breath, mostly to convince herself. “She’s—she’s sixteen. Sixteen-year-olds do stupid things; Merlin knows _I_ did—”

“I didn’t!” Robert protested. “Well, I did—but never something like _this_!”

Elaine swallowed and nodded, because she’d already reached that conclusion on her own. That conclusion was the reason why it was so hard not to panic.

But she couldn’t panic. She needed to tackle this carefully, methodically. Step by step. Figure out what had happened. _Find Rowan._

If she called in a Code Wrackspurt, she wouldn’t be allowed within spitting distance of the search. She could handle being forced to stand down when it was her mother’s killer on the loose. She could see the logic. And no matter how soon or how late the killer was found, it wouldn’t change what happened to her mother.

This—

Elaine was not going to be sidelined when it was her daughter who was in trouble.

“We need to talk to her friends,” Elaine said. “Jon—Zach. They’d know where she is, if anyone would.”

“She can’t have gotten off the train!” Robert protested. “I was watching for her! I would have seen her!”

Elaine shook her head. “She’s a witch, Robert; there are a dozen ways she could have hidden from you if she wanted to. No. We can’t—we can’t _assume_ that she wasn’t on the train.”

“This is Rowan we’re talking about! She’d never do something like that!” Robert protested.

_I know,_ Elaine thought.

She was trying very hard not to know.

“We need to eliminate possibilities, Robert! We need—we need to see if the explanation is obvious! Then—then we work our way toward …” Elaine swallowed. “Damn it, Robert, I have training in this! Can’t you just bloody trust me _for once_?”

Robert stared at her. His mouth moved, but no sounds came out, and the air between them crackled with the force of things left unsaid.

He took a deep breath. “Zach and Jon,” he pointed out, “live in Scotland. The _north_ of Scotland. That’s—Elaine, that has to be four hundred, five hundred miles away.”

“The distance is not going to be a problem.” She glanced at her watch. “We could get there in thirty seconds if we needed to.”

“Could,” Robert repeated.

Elaine simply raised an eyebrow.

He sighed. “I’ll get my coat.”


	46. Chapter 45: Stuck in the Middle with You

**Chapter 45: Stuck in the Middle with You**

The longer the afternoon dragged on, the more certain that Zach was that Rowan was in some sort of trouble. He and Jon had tried to reassure themselves – and each other – that Rowan was fine. But this was so outside of what Rowan had ever done that he just couldn’t dismiss it. Not after Mr. Bellerose had creeped on her, not after her grandmother was murdered, not after what Vivianne had said about her great-uncle.

No, the more he tried to tell himself that he was being paranoid, the more convinced he was that he was far from paranoid, that someone or something had prevented Rowan from reaching Elaine at Hagrid’s – and that whatever it was, it was up to no good.

He started out of the common room at a brisk walk, nodding to the Fat Friar as he made his way down the hall, but by the time he reached the stairs down into the dungeons, he was sprinting, counting doors as he went.

That one. He tapped a certain rhythm on the door. He tried to catch his breath and slow his mind as he waited for the door to open.

“Zach, what’s wrong?” Vivianne asked. Miri was looking at them both with wide eyes.

“I told you I was going to fire-talk Jon this afternoon. He said that Rowan never made it onto the train,” Zach took a deep breath.

“Right, I knew that. I heard them talking about it on the way out. I don’t see …”

“Ben and I didn’t walk her down to Hagrid’s, we were busy hauling cauldrons, she said she would wait for Jon. Promised us—well, Ben—that she would. But she didn’t.”

“So the last time anyone saw her was Saturday on her way down to Hagrid’s—by herself,” Vivianne said slowly.

Zach nodded.

“Fuck.”

Zach nodded again. “And we don’t have dick to take to any of the teachers,” he said. “Jon and I already covered that. They’d have to contact her parents and then they’d have to contact all of her friends.”

“And Rowan’s been missing since Saturday morning – and if any of the people I can think of who would take Rowan have her, we might not have that long,” Vivianne added. “Well, let’s go get that walking bit of Gryffindork wall that my cousin calls a boyfriend and work this logically rather than running around like canaries without a head.”

“Chickens, I think.”

“Chickens,” Miri seconded. He’d almost forgotten she was there. “Please don’t tell me to go back to the common room. Can I at least walk with you guys up to Gryffindor tower? I’ve never seen it.”

Vivianne looked at Zach; then she jerked her head to the side. Zach nodded. It’d give him at least enough time to think of a way to leave Miri behind without hurting the girl’s feelings. Because if they were going to go out into the twilight hunting Rowan, he wasn’t taking a firstie with them.

On that list of things that someday he wished he could know how Vivianne did, the walk up to the tower convinced him that he wanted to know how she could pull that air of nonchalance around her at will. It was practically impossible to guess that Vivianne was concerned; even he, who knew her fairly well (or so he liked to tell himself), couldn’t have told if he hadn’t known.

They were presented with the portrait of the Fat Lady and tapped loudly on the frame, much to the portrait’s disgruntlement. She muttered something about how things had been much quieter when no one knew where the common room entrances had been besides people who actually lived in the tower. A moment later a fourth- or fifth-year student stuck her head out the door. The girl looked with narrowed eyes at Vivianne before disappearing back into the common room without a word.

Zach and Vivianne had about enough time to exchange worried glances before the door opened again, and there stood Ben, arm full – well, not really, the cat he held was tiny in comparison to Ben’s arms – but in one arm he held a cat, in the other he held a brush, and a worried expression was painted clear as day on his face.

“‘Sup?” he asked.

“Start with an inquiry: you haven’t seen or heard from my cousin since Saturday, have you?” Vivianne asked.

“Nah. I’m guessing that’s bad.”

“Certainly worrisome; nothing misses you, Moore.” Vivianne smiled her best catty smile.

“So what do you guys have planned and how many rounds of paper-rock-scissors are we going to have to engage in to get me included in those plans?” Ben asked. Even Vivianne blinked. Given that Ben was so thoroughly _American,_ it was easy, maybe too easy, to forget that he was an intelligent man – one of the few in their year to pull a full slate of O’s on his OWLs.

“Why, none at all, Ben. We might run into some rocks or something; it never hurts to have a little muscle around.” Vivianne fluttered her lashes at him. Ben didn’t rise to the bait.

“Miri,” Zach turned to the first-year.

“You want me to stay here and keep out of trouble because obviously someone like me is going to be no help at all for whatever you guys are doing, right?” Miri wilted.

“Actually, I need you to do something very important for me,” Ben said, causing three pairs of eyes to shoot toward the Gryffindor. “This is Chance.” He held the cat out to her. “If I’m going to have to traipse across the countryside keeping these two out of mischief, I need someone to keep _her_ out of mischief if I don’t want to come back to a dorm full of stuff that’s been destroyed.

“And no, that isn’t just make-work,” Ben told her. “This is one determined feline, and I’m breaking off in the middle of her grooming. Trust me; watching her would save me a load of troubles.”

Zach watched Miri’s face as she looked up at Ben, and Ben looked back with every line screaming only earnestness.

“Okay,” Miri said and held out her hands. The kitten, a red-white-and-blue bandanna tied around her neck, twisted around, put her paws on Miri’s cheeks and bumped Miri’s nose with her nose.

“We’ll be back soon,” Vivianne said, laying a hand – almost reassuringly – on Miri’s shoulder. Then the three sixth-years turned in unison for the stairwell.

* * *

When Robert finished emptying the contents of his stomach into the nearest set of bushes, he straightened, panting. “What—the _hell_ —was that?”

“Side-Along Apparition,” Elaine answered. “I would have given you a Stomach Calming Draught beforehand, but—well—we’ve found that just makes things worse with Muggles.” A slight pause, then, softly, “Are you feeling better?”

_No,_ Robert thought. No, he wasn’t feeling better. His daughter was missing. He’d just felt like all his insides had been squeezed through a tiny tube. He had no idea where he was or how he’d gotten there. And his daughter was missing.

“I’m fine,” he said, popping a breath mint into his mouth. “Where are we?”

“Swona.”

Robert looked up. The island was windswept and nearly bare, except for snow and the houses and rock walls that made up the small village. It was already dark here. The windows glowed with the soft light of candles. A couple of the houses were decorated with twinkling fairy lights.

“This way,” Elaine said, hooking her arm through Robert’s and leading the way down the village’s main (and perhaps only) street. “Wendy’s shop should still be open.”

Robert nodded and did his best to keep up. They passed by a series of homes and small shops, and perhaps some buildings that were both. He saw a bakery, a fishmonger, a grocer. His eyes were drawn to the fairy lights, maybe because they were a hint of the familiar.

His eyes bugged when he noticed that on pretty much all of the houses, the “fairy lights” were _actual fairies_.

“Here,” Elaine said, as they walked up to a small shop. Over the door was written, most discreetly, _Wendy Duncan, Atelier_.

Elaine pushed the door open, the shop-bell ringing. Robert blinked as he looked around. The shop was lit with candles and lanterns – he wished he knew why he was surprised. Maybe it was because the rest of the shop seemed so – _normal_ in comparison. There were outfits on mannequins, racks of clothes in every color of the rainbow, mirrors and signs pointing toward the changing rooms. If you didn’t look closely at the clothes, you could imagine you were in any small boutique in London. If you did look a little closely at the clothes, you could probably still imagine that you were in a small boutique in Chelsea or one of the more outré parts of Paris.

“Wendy?” Elaine called, dragging Robert’s mind back to where they were and why they were there.

“Here!” came a sweet, cheerful voice from … somewhere. Robert was looking around in vain before he saw Wendy coming out from between a pair of racks. “This is a surprise! Hello, Elaine, how—”

She stopped, blinking. “Robert?”

Wendy Duncan was a tall woman, slender, with strawberry-blonde hair and a perpetually kind expression. It was easy to see that she and Zach were mother and son: they had the same heart-shaped face, the same smile. Even the same way of biting their lower lips when they were nervous.

“Wendy,” Elaine said. “This—I’m afraid this isn’t a social call. Or even a,” her eyes flickered to one of the dresses, and Robert saw her eyebrows go up, “a business call. We need to talk to Zach and Jon – and quickly.”

“Zach?” Wendy frowned, the kind of frown that hid more than it said. “He—he stayed at school for the holiday. But Jon …” Wendy looked over her shoulder. “Jon?”

“Right here!” Rowan’s friend Jon came jogging from between a couple of the racks. “What do you …”

He stopped dead. And for a moment, Robert had a flicker of hope. Because that – _that_ was a panicked teenager expression if Robert had ever seen one. _That_ was the kind of expression that (usually) only came out when The Adults had figured out what the game was and when all hell was about to break loose. If Jon was panicked – then maybe that meant that he knew where Rowan was. Maybe that meant he knew that the jig was up. And maybe that meant—

But what came out of his mouth killed that hope stone dead. “Where’s Rowan?”

“We were hoping you could tell us that, Jon,” said Elaine, stepping forward.

“She didn’t get off the train,” Robert added, probably unnecessarily.

“She—she didn’t get on the train!” Jon’s eyes were as wide as saucers as he looked from Elaine to Robert and back again. “We thought she was with you!”

“She never appeared at Hagrid’s hut,” Elaine answered, and Robert wondered just how the hell she sounded so calm. “When was the last time you saw her, Jon?”

Jon shook his head. “Not—not since breakfast on Saturday. I—I wanted to help walk her down—but Owen’s Exploding Snap deck exploded, and—”

Even if circumstances weren’t what they were, that was the kind of statement Robert knew better than to ask about.

Elaine held up her hand. “So you don’t know what happened to her after breakfast?”

Jon shook his head again. “No—no, Zach and Ben were going to walk her down. I fire-talked Zach!” he went on. “Zach said—Zach said that Rove saw Rowan, Ben and Zach waiting, and he made Ben and Zach move all the cauldrons from the dungeons.”

“Move the cauldrons?” Robert asked – exploded, really, because he had to say _something_. “Don’t you all have magic for that?”

Elaine was the one to reply. And her reply was quite possibly one of the most terrifying things Robert had heard all day.

“Yes,” she answered, eyes narrowed. “We do.”

Even Wendy gasped.

“So—Zach and Ben were dragged off to move cauldrons. And they left Rowan …?” she asked.

“In the lobby. And—and when we all got down—she was already gone! We thought—we thought she must have already headed out to meet you.” Jon’s eyes kept darting between Elaine and Robert.

Robert, for his part, looked at Elaine. So did Wendy.

He knew that look. It was her “thinking – and thinking hard” look. He’d only seen that look a handful of times …

Each time he knew he never wanted to see it again.

“So—what you’re saying is—nobody whom we know of has seen Rowan since Saturday morning—and as far as we know, she tried to walk to Hagrid’s hut by herself?” Elaine asked.

Jon nodded.

“Elaine?” Wendy asked quietly. She put an arm over Jon’s shoulders and began to rub them in a very maternal gesture. “What can we do to help?”

Elaine shook her head. “I don’t think—”

She stopped. Her eyes narrowed.

“Actually,” she asked, “can we use your flue?”

* * *

“Chance! Chance, wait!” Miri called after Ben’s cat; she had suddenly jumped off Miri’s lap and darted to a shadow not far from the bench where Miri had stationed herself by the doors out into the courtyard. It was stupid, Miri knew, but familiar; she had done the same thing every time Henry had been home on leave or back from deployment. Grandma had even put a chair with a tiny little desk in the entry way for her. She’d colored, read, but mostly, she just sat.

The doors opened, and Miri for just a second took her eyes off the cat and onto the professor who walked in them. That was all the opportunity Chance needed; she darted out the door into the darkening twilight and swirling snow. The professor – one of the ones who didn’t teach first years, but Miri thought might have been Professor Kilduff – she was spindly and kind-looking, and Spencer and Trevor and Zach all agreed that Professor Kilduff was very nice – didn’t see Miri in the shadows as she was busy shaking out her sunshine-yellow mittens.

So Miri held her breath and stood very still as the woman closed the doors and headed off muttering something about cocoa and a good book on a night like tonight. Miri totally agreed – but Ben had charged her with keeping track of his cat and by Merlin’s shiny gold cutlery, Miri was going to have Ben’s cat when he came back. If he came back. She wished in that moment she could be so certain that would happen.

But the surety had died with Henry.

She grabbed up her cloak and gloves, earmuffs and scarf from the bench, and when the older woman had disappeared from sight of the doors, Miri dashed to them and wrenched one open. She took her wand from her pocket and sighed. “ _Lumos_.” Her stomach clenched as it always did when she desperately needed something to work. The wand tip lit and illuminated tiny kitten prints in the snow.

Miri pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and up over her mouth and trudged off in the direction of the cat prints.

She was getting close to the Forest, enough that all the stories she’d heard about the Forest from the older students – and from Dara and Chandler, who liked to scare the other first-years with horror stories – came flooding to the surface. Suddenly, her foot caught on something, and she tumbled face-first toward the snow.

“Ooof!” She landed hard, the slope of the ground making it hard to properly brace herself, and looked at her foot. What she tripped over not anything she could make out in the dark. She had to find her wand.

There it was. The length of larch was sticking out of the snow like an arrow, glowing tip in the snow. She grabbed it up, wondering again at the way that it always felt just slightly warm and almost comforting to hold.

Swishing the wand from side to side, she tried to figure out what she’d tripped over – where Chance was – hell, where _she_ was. Her eyes stung slightly from tears, prickling because of the cold. Chance was nowhere to be seen, what she tripped over was a simple lump of snow, and other than on the hill leading down toward Hagrid’s cottage …

“What am I gonna do? What if Chance is in the Forest and is getting eaten by that mud tiger thingy? What _is_ that mud tiger thingy?” she said out loud. Not that she was expecting an answer – which made her all the more surprised when she actually got one. A flash of purple-and-black light to her left – near the snowdrift she tripped over – caught her attention. The drift melted away in the center, revealing—a book?

An old book, but obviously well cared for. Why would it be out here in the snow? Something on the cover of the book – a rune? A sigil? Something weird at any rate – glowed slightly; then the book flipped itself open.

The book showed a blank page that filled with more runes – all gibberish to Miri, who sighed.

“I don’t understand,” she told the book. The runes ran like ink in the rain, reforming into words, ones Miri _could_ read.

_Magical Construct: Clawspawn_

_as Written by Morgan le Fay_

_A construct of dark magic, Clawspawns are an extension of the will of a dark witch or wizard. Built of life force of sacrificed magical folk and/or creatures systematically murdered, their essences and souls stored in a special gem-like core or “heart.” A Clawspawn can be created with the life force of weaker, less sentient beings, but this will be reflected in its abilities._

_A higher functioning Clawspawn is always the result of using sentient magical creatures. A person – be they witch, goblin, merfolk, siren, centaur – went into its creation._

_The practice of creating Clawspawns first became popular in the decadent ages of the Roman Empire. Roman wizards often sacrificed slaves and even political enemies to fuel the creation of Clawspawns. Practice was likely spread to the Saxons through the spread of the empire. Leaders of magical clans kept the slave/enemy source._

The description then turned to really technical magical writing that made little more sense to Miri than the runes had, until something caught her eye at the very bottom of the entry.

_Known encounters: Prefounding of Gorlois clan, -3 years. Location: Morgan’s Scottish castle. Status of creature: unknown. Notes: Clawspawn disappeared when castle was displaced, as it’s not alive, unlikely it is dead._

Something tugged at Miri’s scarf and she shrieked, turning to find Chance, the scarf caught in her mouth.

“I didn’t know Morgan ever lived in Scotland, Chance.”

“Miri!” For a second, Miri’s heart pounded in her chest, wondering how the cat had learned to speak and why she had such a deep rumbly man’s voice. Then she realized that the sudden increase in darkness wasn’t the sun having finally set; it was Hagrid standing over her. “What’re yeh doin’ out here? Just cos the school’s on holiday don’ mean that thing isn’ still dangerous. C’mon, I’ll walk yeh back ter the castle.”

“Hagrid, sir? Can you take me to Professor Kilduff?” Miri asked as she scooped the book up in one arm and the cat up in the other.

“Professor Kilduff, why?”

“Cause Morgan le Fay lived in Scotland and that tiger thing is a Clawspawn. It’s a dark magic construct that came out of the ruins.” She hugged the book a little tighter to her chest. “And—and I think it might have something to do with Rowan being missing.”

“Rowan’s missin’?”

Miri nodded, her hair bouncing.

“Les just hope Elaine leaves the school standin’, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned, everybody, because today is a Two-For Friday! The next chapter will be going up as soon as we give it one last edit.


	47. Chapter 46: In the Forests of the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a Two-For Friday! That means that, if you're looking for Chapter 45, you're going to want to go back one chapter. Don't worry, we'll wait.

**Chapter 46: In the Forests of the Night**

Robert ended up vomiting again when Elaine Apparated them both to Hogsmeade. That made the walk up to the castle take longer than she had planned. Maybe they should have taken the Floo … but Elaine wasn’t sure if Muggles _could_ use the Floo Network, and things could easily go wrong when someone inexperienced tried to use the Floo. Elaine did not have time to chase Robert up and down the length of Wizarding Britain. Robert’s stomach would just have to pay the price.

On the plus side, however, this extra time ensured that Professor Flitwick was waiting by the gate when she and Robert finally approached it. He was easy to pick out, what with being so short and what with his worried pacing.

“Elaine! And—Dr. O’Blake!” he shouted. He waved his wand, and the gates opened, Elaine hurrying Robert into them before the Muggle-Repelling Charms – if they were still active; Professor Flitwick had said when she fire-talked him that he’d be taking them down – could make him remember that he left the milk out on the counter or that he was missing an important meeting. “Er—I _do_ have to ask for some identification …”

Elaine was ready for that, her wand already waving to show her Auror ID. Robert was left patting his pockets and trying to find his wallet.

Professor Flitwick barely glanced at her identification, and when Robert finally found his, he paid him the same courtesy. “Excellent—come along, come along—so Rowan never got on the train?”

“As far as we can tell,” Elaine replied, quickening her pace to keep pace with the Charms professor. He was small, but he was quite fast. Robert was struggling to keep up.

“And she’s not here—at least—no, she’s not at the school. If—if something went wrong—she would have talked to me—and I would have seen her—for meals and such …” Professor Flitwick seemed to flag, taking out a handkerchief and using it to mop his face – or perhaps his eyes. “I just—I can’t believe this is happening _again_ —”

“ _Again_?” Robert yelped. Elaine would have done the same thing, except he beat her to it.

Professor Flitwick looked back. “Yes—unfortunately—in 1998, we had a student …” He took a deep breath, seemingly unable to go on until he gathered his courage. “Kidnapped right off the platform—Death Eaters …”

“That was during the war, Robert,” Elaine filled in. “Not exactly Hogwarts’s fault.”

A glare at Professor Flitwick ensured that he didn’t argue with that characterization. He nodded once and wisely stopped talking.

They kept hurrying across the grounds. Elaine tried to keep her mind on the here and now – on what she had to do – but her mind kept wandering to the _last_ time she had been walking as fast as she could across the grounds of Hogwarts on a dark, star-studded evening—

They reached the top of the verge and Robert stopped dead, and because Elaine had hooked her arm through his back in the village, Elaine stopped too.

He was staring slack-jawed at the school. “That— _that’s_ Hogwarts?”

Elaine slowed for a second and glanced at the school clinging to the rocks. Images of Hogwarts through the years flashed through her mind. The first time she had seen it, when she was eleven, across the wide lake. Many times over the years to follow, walking outside with her friends or practicing with the Gryffindor Quidditch squad. Guarding it in 1996 and 1997.

One dark May night ten years ago, when spells lit up the sky and fires burned in every unattended corner and parts of the walls were reduced to rubble—

Elaine shook her head and tugged Robert forward. Robert’s jaw was still hanging open, but he followed.

As they came closer, Elaine said, “As far as we can determine, Rowan walked down – or tried to walk down – to Hagrid’s hut by herself, because Zach and Ben—Zach Duncan and Ben Moore—were called away. By Professor Rove. To haul cauldrons from the dungeons.” Elaine let the pause rest, before asking, as casually as she could, “Any idea why he might do that?”

Maybe it wasn’t casually enough. Professor Flitwick jumped. “Why he would—” She could practically see the thoughts flickering across the Charms professor’s face – Filius Flitwick was a lot of things, but poker-faced wasn’t one of them. “Oh Merlin. Many. Maxwell …” He ran a hand down his face. “Maxwell is very good at nursing a grudge.”

“A grudge against whom?” Elaine asked.

“Benjamin, mostly. Ben and his friends—well—they like to pull pranks. Sometimes at Maxwell’s …” He stopped. “Even if Maxwell has a grudge against Ben, he doesn’t have anything to do with _this_! Elaine!”

Luckily Elaine didn’t have to come up with a way to dispute that, because they came up to the great doors of the school. Professor Flitwick opened them up and ushered the two of them inside.

When they stepped into the huge atrium, another horde of memories came unannounced, and Elaine didn’t have time to deal with them. She glanced sidelong at Robert and tried to look at the school through his eyes instead.

Robert was slack-jawed and wide-eyed as he looked around, taking in the marble staircase, the portraits chatting and talking, the torches that lined the wall. “Oh … my,” was all he was able to say.

They didn’t have time for him to do more than gape as they hurried up the steps and down the halls. “I thought we would meet in Professor Rove’s office,” Professor Flitwick said. “He’ll need to know what’s going on—and it’s a good central base of operations.”

Elaine nodded, and they continued walking up to the third floor. The school looked much the same as it had when she went here – maybe a few portraits had been moved – except every so often there was a small bronze plaque on the wall.

Elaine caught sight of a date out of the corner of her eye: _May 2, 1998._

_Oh—Merlin._ And they were just passing—was this where …? _Oh, Merlin, it is …_

They hurried past _that_ spot quickly, so quickly that Elaine was able to push the memories back down where they had come from.

Finally they ended up on the third floor, right outside the old statue of the gargoyle that marked the passage to the Headmaster’s office. Professor Flitwick took a deep breath. “Seekins and Vermillion,” he said.

Elaine blinked – and snorted.

“What?” asked Robert.

“That—it’s the name of a robes shop in Diagon Alley. Selling …” Elaine paused and remembered her impression of Maxwell Rove, both when he worked in the Ministry and when Elaine had seen him for Battle memorials. “Well—you’ll see in a minute.”

Robert just looked confused, but the gargoyle stepped aside, and the three of them hurried up the twisting stone staircase to the Headmaster’s office.

* * *

She could practically feel the hair on her head getting frizzier by the moment. Pomona stuck her head in the first-year dorm one last time. Nothing, just like the first two times she had looked into the room. A lock of hair fell out from under the scarf she had it tied up in, and her heart followed its path, straight down.

“And none of you have seen either of them?”

“Sorry, Professor. I know Zach was talking to—Jon? James? Jack? His friend, the—Ravenclaw, this afternoon—and I didn’t listen in, but Zach looked worried. Miri left right after lunch, like she has the past couple of days, and we usually don’t see her until dinner,” Mikhaila told the Hufflepuff head of house, twisting her hands together, her red and gold manicure flashing in the light. It sort of gladdened Pomona’s heart to see it. The houses were getting less and less insular, even if they were getting larger. It wasn’t uncommon to see her Hufflepuffs with Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, even Slytherins. There was a while there … she wouldn’t think about that, not now, not when she had students missing again.

You-Know-Who was gone and he wasn’t coming back. He couldn’t be behind her missing children.

The problem was … there was always another one in the wings. Someone who had more ambition than good sense and didn’t mind hurting people to get what he or she wanted.

She ran through the students that she knew had stayed at the school for the holiday. Vivianne Gorlois was the one most likely to know where Zach was. And she would just hope if she found Zach that Miri would be with him. But there was no point in going to Rosie Yaxley if she got the same response out of the Slytherins.

Moving through the halls, her robes flapping in both her wake and the drafts from the dungeon hallways themselves, she took a deep breath or two and hoped that it was as simple as the two snogging in some empty classroom. One would have to be older than Pomona not to remember what the kind of doe-eyed looks Zach shot at Vivianne meant.

But her stop at the Slytherin dungeon resulted in her receiving the same puzzled response she’d gotten in the basement, though tinged with a completely Slytherin edge of “and it’s safer for me not to know,” perhaps especially as she was inquiring about a Gorlois girl.

_I’ll go to Filius’s office,_ the Herbology professor decided. _He’ll know what to do._

“Is something wrong, Pomona?” A shy voice, hesitant on her name, asked as she distractedly walked toward the stairwell that would take her to the Deputy Headmaster’s office. Even after several years as her peer, more or less, Neville still seemed hesitant to put himself forward on that level.

“I’m missing a couple of students. I was going to go talk with Filius.” The same fear that tightened Pomona’s heart flickered across Neville’s face. The memories were hard every day – but sometimes they were worse. When the children weren’t where they were supposed to be most of all. It wasn’t fair to expect them to know how hard that was. She knew that Filius and Neville, Hagrid and Poppy, all of them that had been there for the battle – for that horrible year preceding it – fought those feelings, even when it was just a few students up to mischief.

“Which students? I saw Filius heading up toward Rove’s office—with—well—with Elaine O’Blake—and a man I didn’t recognize—exactly.” Neville trailed off, looking for all the world like the eleven-year-old she remembered from his very first Herbology class.

“Exactly?” Pomona prompted.

“Well, it’s just a guess—but he looked an awful lot like Elaine’s daughter, Rowan.” Neville bit his lip.

Pomona swallowed hard, twice. She knew that Mr. O’Blake was a muggle. Only a witch living under a rock – or at least very far away from the Gorlois family – wouldn’t have heard at least something about that. A man who looked like Rowan? With Rowan’s mother. Here. At Hogwarts.

Pomona laid a hand against her chest and gasped. Zachary was thick as thieves with little Rowan and Jon McIntosh. Vivianne was her cousin. Too much of this was falling into place.

“Professor?” Neville asked.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Neville. Rowan’s dear friend Zach is one of the students I’m missing. The other is a firstie, Miranda – Miranda Rainesfere.” Pomona told him. Miranda would be in Neville’s first-year Herbology class.

“Miri? She and Hagrid were going up to Brigid’s office, I believe. With a cat. And a book.” Neville frowned slightly. “The book was almost as big as she was.” He forced out a small laugh.

“As the girl or the cat?” Pomona asked curiously.

“As the girl. It was bigger than the cat—though it was a rather small cat. Oddest thing, the cat was wearing a—scarf—sort of? Not like a winter scarf, like a—tied around the neck or hair scarf.”

“What’s so odd about that?” Pomona’s eyebrow rose slightly. People put weirder things on their cats, especially some of the Muggle-borns. Miri didn’t have a pet, but that wasn’t to say that someone at the school hadn’t left their cat in Miri’s care.

“I’d swear it was printed with the Texan flag.” Neville rubbed his neck. “And needless to say …”

“There’s only one person in all of the school who’d put a scarf with the state flag of Texas on their cat.” Pomona nodded. “I need to see Leo, then.”

“I’ll come with you—if I won’t be in the way.” Neville offered shyly.

“You won’t be in the way.” Pomona smiled as they both hurried toward Leo’s office. If this had all gone pear-shaped, well, going with the young man who’d killed that awful snake and stared down You-Know-Who himself wasn’t the worst idea.

* * *

The ruins were somehow more imposing by night. Threatening. Watching. Not welcoming and comforting as they usually were.

Vivianne didn’t know whether that was a good sign or a bad one.

They had barely argued at all in their decision to come to the ruins first. In a way, it was the only thing that made sense. Everything had started at the ruins. The class. Morgan’s sigil. Vivianne’s poisoning. Monsieur Bellerose.

Even though Vivianne’s better sense told her that whoever had Rowan – Monsieur Bellerose, Uncle Victor, someone whom they hadn’t even thought of – could have taken her anywhere, something deeper than sense told Vivianne that this was where she was.

“So how are we gonna find her?” asked Ben as the three of them trudged to the gate. The snow cover in the Forest hadn’t been bad, but here, in the clear, it came well up to Vivianne’s calves. It would probably be close to Rowan’s knees.

Zach didn’t answer – he had his wand out, lit up, sweeping it from side to side like a torch, looking for – tracks maybe? But there weren’t any tracks. Sunday had been snowy, and the courtyard – once they got into it – was a pure expanse of unbroken white.

“I don’t think we should split up,” Vivianne said. “This place is—confusing—if one of us gets into trouble …”

“Right,” Zach agreed. His free hand, never far from hers, reached over and squeezed it. “We stick together.”

“But that means we cover less ground,” Ben pointed out.

Vivianne wasn’t sure what to say about that. It was, of course, true. But Vivianne also didn’t have a better idea.

“We’ll find her,” Zach replied with the kind of optimism – or maybe just determination – that made Hufflepuffs who they were.

Vivianne wished she had that much optimism.

Determination, however – that she could do.

She lit her wand as they came into the atrium. The reflecting pool had filled up with snow, and there was another small pile of snow in the little alcove, where it must have fallen in from the skylight.

Other than that, it looked the same as it had the last time Vivianne had seen it, on the day of class that ended up being their last.

“There’s secret passages all around here …” Ben muttered, and Vivianne and Zach both nodded. Rowan could be anywhere. There had to be some kind of methodical way to find her. Some idea of where she could be.

Vivianne glanced at the hallways that led off from the atrium, thinking. If she had kidnapped someone – if she wanted to take that person somewhere they wouldn’t be disturbed – if she had the entire ruins at her disposal—

_Click. Click. Click._

_What the—_

Vivianne turned around. So did the boys.

There was a great hulking shape in the doorway of the atrium. Now it was only a shadow against the whiteness of the snow and the small pinpricks of light that were the stars.

But it was a shadow Vivianne recognized. “Fuck! _Incendio_!”

The shadow roared and leapt. A jet of flame shot from Vivianne’s wand, followed by similar jets from Ben’s and Zach’s wands.

Then battle was joined, and Vivianne didn’t have much time for thinking.


	48. Chapter 47: In the Bleak Midwinter

**Chapter 47: In the Bleak Midwinter**

Oddly, Chance was getting heavier than the book was, Miri noted as they trudged up another set of stairs. Did Professor Kilduff have an office on the ruddy roof?

“Would yeh like me ter carry somethin’?” Hagrid asked. Miri looked between the cat she carried and the book and offered Chance to the large man. He smiled faintly as she hugged the book closer to her chest and gasped when the staircase they were on moved. She kinda hated that part. Everyone said that there were charms to keep people from falling, that it wasn’t that different than being on a broom. Miri totally disagreed with that point.

She trusted herself; Henry had always told her that to achieve you needed discipline, and while some days it was hard, when she could try, she always did her best. She might have screwed up a lot. But he had also said that you never truly failed until you gave up. Henry never gave up; Miri wasn’t giving up, no matter who thought she failed. She wasn’t going to fall off the broom because that was giving up.

But trusting the moving staircase and its safety measures was trusting someone else – and she probably needed a bit more work in that.

When it connected with surprisingly little jolt to the hallway above, she stepped off and took a deep, calming breath before heading in the direction of Hagrid’s nod. The door to Professor Kilduff’s office had a beautiful stained glass panel in the top of it, golds and sunshine yellows darkening toward the top and edges like a sunset. Hagrid tapped on the glass – which was good, because for all of her trying to remember and be brave like Henry, she would have been terrified.

Professor Kilduff was indeed the woman who had inadvertently let Chance out the door. “Oh, Hagrid, come in, come in.” She was dressed in a warm yellow jumper and long black skirt with pawprints that looked a bit like a badger’s. “And this young lady is?” she asked as she shooed both of them toward the arched stone fireplace built with a huge fire. The walls were paneled in golden wood, and quilts in sunset colors showing a lakeside cabin during all the seasons of the year hung in place of paintings. The chairs nearest the fire were stacked with leather bound books that floated up and returned themselves to the bookshelf.

“Cocoa? Biscuits? You two look half-frozen!”

Hagrid looked at Miri, who shrugged. Professor Kilduff wasn’t really listening anyway; she had cocoa pressed into their hands before the two of them could do anything more than exchange those looks. “How ‘bout chocolate chip? Maybe gingerbread?”

“Uh, sugar?” Miri offered.

“Here, uh. Oh, I,” Professor Kilduff said, floating a plate of sugar biscuits in Miri’s direction, “didn’t catch your name?” A moment later some fudge and a small flask floated in Hagrid’s direction.

“Miri, um. You—you’re the Ancient Runes professor, right?” Miri said.

Professor Kilduff sat perched on the edge of the sofa near Hagrid, covering her lap with a knitted throw in black and yellow with the Hufflepuff badger in the center. Chance hopped out of Hagrid’s arms and settled into the Professor’s lap.

“That’s Chance; she’s Ben Moore’s cat,” Miri introduced, causing both Hagrid and Professor Kilduff to smile.

“This ‘tisn’t exactly a social call, Professor,” Hagrid rumbled before nodding encouragingly at Miri. Miri took a drink of her cocoa before setting it on the end table next to a miniature palm tree in a Caribbean painted pot.

“I found this book, in the snow. Um, well. Zach—Vivianne said she would—help me practice some spells, one of the—well—I have a little trouble with a couple of my housemates.” Miri’s face tightened slightly, and she hoped Professor Kilduff wouldn’t ask for any more than that. She probably shouldn’t have been learning those hexes and Vivianne doubly shouldn’t have been teaching her them. “She—thought it would help. You know—counter-spells and stuff.” Miri chewed at her lip for a second, waiting to see if Professor Kilduff would let her leave it at that.

“That sounds like Vivianne. Now if it was Sybilla, I’d be truly worried.” Professor Kilduff’s smile never faltered, still warm and inviting.

“While we were practicing, Zach came and got Vivianne. He was worried cause—his friend Rowan? Is—he thinks she’s missing. He and his friend Jon, they talked and neither of them had heard from her—and she was—well—I’m not sure why she was going to go to Hagrid’s cottage on Saturday before the train.” Miri stumbled off.

“Her mum, Elaine, she’s a friend o’ mine. An’ with Elaine’s mum havin’ passed on this year, Rowan was talking about spendin’ the holiday with her mum instead of her dad,” Hagrid explained when Professor Kilduff turned a thoughtful gaze on him.

“Of course. Makes plenty of sense to me,” Professor Kilduff told him, stroking Chance’s back.

“But she never got there. Elaine and I thought she’d decided to go home to London instead.” Hagrid wilted slightly.

“It’s all right, the morning before the kids leave is always chaos, Hagrid,” the spindly professor reassured him, patting his large hand.

“I still shoulda checked,” Hagrid muttered and took a big bite of fudge.

“They went and got Ben—and that’s how I have Chance. She—ran out the door—I was—waiting,” Miri admitted.

Professor Kilduff lifted Chance and waggled her finger at her, scoldingly; the kitten wrapped her paws around Professor Kilduff’s wrist and brushed her face against the finger.

“You are thoroughly disarming,” Professor Kilduff said. “Sounds like she scared you.”

“She did—but—when I was looking for her, I found this book.” Miri slipped off her chair and knelt down on the rag rug in front of the two teachers. “I—was—sorta talking out loud to myself and well …” Miri bit her lip and flipped the book open, showing the blank pages, which caused Professor Kilduff to look puzzled.

“Could you show me that thing on the Clawspawn again, please?” Miri asked the book. She saw the two professors look at each other, but she was too busy watching the words form themselves on the page to read a lot into the glance. She gave a little squeak of excitement as the words appeared.

“The thing in the ruins, the tiger thing that attacked Vivianne: it’s a Clawspawn.” Miri pointed to the passage about the creature’s appearance.

“Oh! Oh, Merlin. I’ve read about Clawspawns, in old translations and such. Yes, they were moderately common in certain areas and—groups,” Professor Kilduff said. “But …” She trailed off.

“It says here at the bottom. That one of the known sightings was in Scotland at Morgan’s castle. It was ‘displaced.’ In the book. I don’t know what displacement is …?” Miri trailed off, trying to pull her roiling thoughts and theories into coherence.

“It’s a phenomenon that happens when too much magic is brought to bear on one place. Things can—well—basically disappear; they’re not here, but they’re not gone either. I’ve never seen it happen—nor known anyone who ever has seen it happen,” Professor Kilduff explained. “And even in writing I’ve only heard of it maybe twice. And even then it was—not enough to displace an entire castle.”

“But this would’ve been _Morgan le Fay_ and—and somebody with a _Clawspawn_. Y’see?” Miri said, looking at Chance and not Professor Kilduff, in case the Ancient Runes professor was about to laugh at her.

“Yes, if even half of what we know of Morgan was true—if someone could bring enough power to bear on a place to displace something like a castle, it _would_ be someone like Morgan.” Professor Kilduff looked thoughtful. “But what about Zach, Vivianne, and Ben? You said they got Ben when you were entrusted with Chance – but where did they go?”

“They didn’t say that part—but they were looking for Rowan.”

“The ruins,” Hagrid and Professor Kilduff both gasped. “We have to take this to Maxwell, Hagrid.”

Hagrid muttered something to himself, but climbed to his feet. Chance hopped off Professor Kilduff’s lap and Miri swept up the book.

“Here, we’ll take this with us.” Professor Kilduff offered, picking up the mug of cocoa and plate of biscuits as they headed for the door.

Silently Miri thanked the book and heard – maybe just in her imagination – something almost like a _you’re welcome_.

* * *

Rove took a deep breath and prayed for patience.

“Mrs. O’Blake,” he started, because out of the three irritated adults standing before his desk, she seemed to be the leader, “I understand why you are worried. I truly do. However, as of yet, we don’t have any evidence that something … untoward has happened to your daughter. Miss O’Blake is, well, sixteen – practically an adult. There are a hundred reasonable explanations—”

“Not for Rowan!” shouted the Muggle – Mr. O’Blake. Rove tried not to wince. Even if he _was_ a Muggle, Rove had pegged Mr. O’Blake as being the reasonable one – more reasonable than his wife, at any rate. But apparently that wasn’t to be. “This is not like her! She disappeared somewhere on the grounds of this— _massive_ school—and we need to find her!”

“I understand it can be very difficult to face the possibility that one’s child is not … how shall I put this …”

“Maxwell!” Filius interrupted. “For Merlin’s sake—Rowan is _not_ that type of student! If she isn’t where she is supposed to be, if none of her friends have heard from her—”

“None?” Rove asked. “From what you told me, you spoke to _one_ of her friends.”

Mrs. O’Blake snorted. “If Rowan was going to pull a disappearing act, Jon would know it. He’d know it before she would!”

Rove’s eyes bugged, but even Filius was nodding along at that one.

He switched tactics. “Mr. O’Blake … Mrs. O’Blake … you _are_ aware that there is … a boyfriend in the picture, are you not?” he asked delicately. “Forgive me; on the one hand, it’s certainly none of my business, but on the other hand—this is a boarding school, and we administrators cannot help but become aware of such matters. Especially when—well, especially when known troublemakers are involved. I think, before we rush to any conclusions, we ought to at least ask Mr. Moore a few pointed questions.”

Filius was making a face, but Mr. O’Blake, at least, looked somewhat receptive. “Elaine,” he murmured, “that certainly can’t _hurt_ – especially since he was supposed to walk her down – we could learn what happened right from the source, rather than through hearsay. He might know more than what Zach said to Jon.”

Mrs. O’Blake, however, was watching Rove with narrowed eyes. “You know,” she said slowly, “this being Hogwarts, I would have thought that a student would have to do a bit more than run a Headmaster’s pants up the flagpole before he became a _known troublemaker_. I mean, you have seen worse here. Far worse.”

Rove blinked – and Filius looked ill.

But Mrs. O’Blake’s gaze didn’t leave his.

Rove took a deep breath, ready for another argument—

He was saved by a knock coming from the door. “Come in!” he called. Perhaps whoever this was—

It wasn’t. He knew that as soon as he caught sight of the light flashing off Leo’s sword—sorry, _cane_.

However, he wasn’t expecting what – or who, technically – was accompanying Leo. Pomona—Neville—and— _Rosie_?

“We have three students missing,” Leo said without preamble. “Ben Moore, Zach Duncan, and Vivianne Gorlois.”

There were three exclamations at once.

“Ben?” yelped Filius.

“Zach?” shouted Mr. O’Blake.

And – somehow louder and more disbelieving than the other two – “ _Vivianne_?” asked Mrs. O’Blake.

Now, ideally, would have been the point to take control of the situation. But Rove didn’t have the chance.

“ _You_!” Rosie snapped, pushing her way to the fore. “You! I knew— _you_ have something to do with this, don’t you? _What did you do to Vivianne_?”

She was pointing at Mrs. O’Blake.

“Rosie—” Neville yelped, trying to grab Rosie’s arm before she could move farther.

But Mrs. O’Blake just rolled her eyes. “Fuchsia,” she said, “I am on my last nerve, and so help me, if you push me, you are going to spend a long, long time in your natural form, and I won’t turn you back until you’re ready to be human again.”

“Elaine!” Neville’s eyes were wide.

“Her … natural form?” Mr. O’Blake asked, in the tones of a man who knew he would regret this but who couldn’t help the question.

In answer, Mrs. O’Blake’s wand whipped out and pointed toward one of Rove’s most prized possessions: a congratulatory chalice he’d been given when he was named Headmaster.

The chalice turned into a donkey.

“What on—” Rove started, stumbling to his feet, but the chalice/donkey barely had time to bray before Mrs. O’Blake lazily flicked her wand that way again.

The donkey turned back into a chalice.

“Understood?” Mrs. O’Blake asked.

Rosie had turned – not pink, like her name – not even red – actually, her face was rather close to fuchsia at the moment. Her mouth opened.

“ _Silencio_!” Neville called.

Rosie took a deep breath and her mouth moved—

No sound came out.

Rosie hiccupped.

“Sorry, Rosie, but it’s really for your own good,” Neville said. “Elaine means business.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. O’Blake said. “Now, if we can get back to—”

“Absolutely not!” Rove exploded, standing up. “Professor Longbottom—I expect better from you! And Mrs. O’Blake—I will not stand for my staff being threatened! If I see any more displays like that, I will have you removed from the premises!”

Mrs. O’Blake turned around—and Rove suddenly sat down, hard.

He’d met the old Gorlois Matriarch – Igraine Vivianne Gorlois – a few times. Ministry functions, back when her husband was alive, fundraisers and charity events after the war. He’d seen her glare a couple of times, and though it was never aimed at him, the glare was always mildly terrifying.

This was worse.

But it was the Muggle who spoke up.

“Are you seriously more worried about a teacher being turned into a donkey than a student— _four students_ —missing?” Mr. O’Blake shouted. “For God’s sake! That’s—that’s nothing! Rowan—Rowan has been gone for _over two days_ , and we don’t know where she is, and—”

His voice sounded perilously close to breaking. Neville laid a hand on his shoulder, causing him to jump. “Sorry,” Neville said. “And—um. Neville Longbottom.” He held out his free hand, a little awkwardly, and Mr. O’Blake shook it just as awkwardly.

“Robert O’Blake,” he muttered.

“Well, now that’s out of the way,” Leo said, “can we talk about how we’re going to find our missing kids?”

Rove’s mouth opened. He prepared to tell Leo just _who_ was in charge here, and _what_ would be happening, and _how_ these students were going to be in detention for the rest of their natural lives if he could possibly manage it—

He never got that far. There was a knock on the door.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake!” Rove shouted. “What _now_?”

* * *

Zach was obviously flagging, and Ben wasn’t in much better shape. The tiger didn’t like the flames, but it was soldiering on past them, gaining ground. It could obviously see much better in the dark than they could – and even with all the clean-up that the students had done, the atrium was marble-floored, and now that the temperature management spells were turned off,  just a little bit of snow getting in could result in an icy puddle that any of them could miss.

“Fuck! It’s herding us, Vivianne!” Ben said, making a connection between where they were and the way the tiger was advancing.

“It is.” Vivianne glared at the tiger and shot a burst of flame straight at its face; it dodged to the side.

“The hall with the warded door,” Zach guessed their destination, obviously thinking that the tiger would trap them against the door and then make mincemeat of them when they’d worn themselves out.

“Wait, the warded door.” Ben turned his attention for a second to Vivianne’s hand. “You opened the secret passage—and that sigil—it’s Morgan’s, right?”

“Your point, Moore?”

“Can you open the fucking door?”

Vivianne stared at him before a triumphant bellow turned her attention square back to the Clawspawn.

“Get my back,” Vivianne said slipping from the fore between the two boys and darting down the hall. Ben and Zach closed ranks. The tiger actually had sat down and was cocking its head to one side, as if thinking.

Then it lunged, nearly getting singed by twin _Incendios_ from Zach and Ben.

“Oh, bloody fuck, I can’t see!” Vivianne said. “My grandmother might’ve known how to do this in the dark with her eyes closed, but I need to _see_ the door.”

Ben took another step back, wishing one of them could take their eyes off their pursuer to even just give her a quick _lumos_. His boot hit a small patch of the ice he’d been worrying about earlier, tipping him into the mosaic-covered door of the reception room. After his arm passed into the space, one of those weird purple lights – like in the secret passage – flickered on.

“Thank Merlin!”

“Thank Ben. What did Merlin do?” Ben tossed over his shoulder.

“Don’t press your luck, Moore,” Vivianne snorted, but there was a hint of a laugh in her tone. “Got it. Wards are primed.” She said something lost in a roar from the tiger. “In, both of you!”

Zach dashed in first, Ben a moment later. Vivianne stuck her tongue out at the tiger as she slammed the door shut almost in its lunging face. She muttered something and the surface of the door lit with runes glowing with purple-and-black light.

“So where _are_ we?” Zach asked.

“ _Lumos Maxima_ ,” Vivianne said, as light flashed to reveal a room that looked – well – like a study or library. There were scrolls neatly stored in pigeonholes, even a few old books and stone tablets.

“There’s still oil in this lamp.” Ben said, looking at what seemed to be a desk with a hammered bronze lamp sitting on the edge of it. “Well, here goes nothin’.”

“What are you—,” Vivianne jerked back as Ben conjured a match and tossed it into the oil as he kept far back from it. The oil lamp flared to life. “You idiot, you could’ve blown us all up.”

“But I didn’t,” Ben pointed out.

“Gryffindors!” Vivianne said, but came around the other side of the desk and peered at the work surface. “I’ll bet you ten galleons that this was the study. Morgan’s study, not that that necessarily helps us.” She sighed and flopped down in the chair, which surreally still had a cushion on it. “What I wouldn’t give for the book.”

“The—book Rowan has?” Zach asked, rubbing across Vivianne’s shoulders.

“That book, yes.” Vivianne shook her head. “It probably has a map—where the secret passages are—a list of passwords—all that stuff is in the book for Caer Tintagel—it would have _something_ that would help us out.”

“Might I point out that you just said this is _Morgan’s_ study.” Ben rolled his eyes. 

“So?”

“So, _think_ , Gorlois,” Ben snapped. “If Morgan were gonna write her passwords down in a book after she didn’t live here anymore, don’t you think she might’ve—I dunno—wrote ‘em down and put them somewhere in the heavily fucking warded room she kept all her other secrets in?”

Vivianne looked at Ben for a single sharp moment.

“Help me get these bloody scrolls down.”

“Yes’m,” Ben said.

“I could get used to that.” Vivianne shot him a smirk.

“Don’t. Really—don’t.” Ben returned the smirk and started laying scrolls on the desk.

* * *

_Is this a bad time?_ was the sentence that sprang to Brigid’s lips, but she bit down on it. It didn’t matter if this was a bad time. What they had was more important whatever could be going on in this room, short of the third coming of You-Know-Who.

Still, habits died hard. “I’m sorry if this is a bad time,” Brigid said, opening the door, “but Miri here has some—”

She stopped dead and looked around. There was Leo – Pomona – Rosie – Filius – and Neville for some reason – along with a man in Muggle clothing who looked an awful lot like little Rowan O’Blake, and a tall, dark-haired woman who was clearly related to Vivianne Gorlois.

And Rove was there, too.

However, he certainly wasn’t going to get a chance to say anything. The tall woman’s eyes had locked on Miri – or rather the book in her arms. “Where did you get that?” she gasped.

Miri squeaked and stumbled back against Hagrid. “Elaine,” he rumbled, putting a comforting and huge hand on Miri’s slim shoulder.

“Sorry—I—” The woman – Elaine – stopped and shook her head, taking a deep breath. Her tone was much gentler when she asked, “But _where_ did you find that?”

“It—I found it in the snow,” Miri said, holding the book a little tighter to herself.

“In the snow,” Elaine repeated, still in that deliberately gentle tone, “in the snow where?”

“By—by the Forest—near Hagrid’s hut,” Miri said. “I think—I think it’s magic? I mean—it—well, look.” She flipped the book open, and this time Brigid didn’t even blink when the blank pages presented themselves. “Sorry, book—can you show us the bit about the Clawspawn again?”

Brigid didn’t bother to watch the ink appear and the words form on the page. She watched her peers and the two other adults in the room. What she saw was mostly surprise, maybe a little bit of shock. Leo didn’t show surprise, of course, but he was Leo. And everyone was staring at the book. Everyone except Elaine – she was watching Miri, frowning faintly, a mix of curiosity and thoughtfulness.

But Leo was the first to speak. “Clawspawn?” he asked, stepping forward, his cane thudding against the floor.

Miri took one look at him and her eyes went wide. She stumbled back and thumped right into Hagrid. “Be nice, Leo,” said Hagrid, “she’s jest a firstie. An’ she’s here ter help.”

Leo raised an eyebrow. “I _am_ being nice.” He glanced down at Miri. “Could I see that book—Miri—please?”

“Um …” Miri’s fingers tightened, almost reflexively, on the book. But after a moment she nodded and handed it to the professor.

“Hmm,” he murmured, glancing at the words written on the page. Brigid put her own hand on Miri’s spare shoulder and flashed her a smile when she looked up.

But the next person to speak was Elaine.

“Clawsp— _shit_!”

“Elaine!” Pomona gasped – scolded, really.

Elaine was shaking her head and walking—storming—over to Leo. “That thing is what I think it is, isn’t it? Big, nasty Dark construct?”

“Yep,” Leo answered.

“How did it get here?” Elaine asked. “There hasn’t been one in Britain since before the Norman Conquest!”

“We—we think it came from the ruins?” Miri spoke up.

“We think,” Brigid clarified, “that—that the ruins might be—an old stronghold of Morgan le Fay’s. And it was displaced due to—well, we haven’t figured that bit out yet. But if anyone could cause displacement of something the size of the ruins, it would be—I’m sorry, Elaine, are you all right?”

Brigid was staring at Elaine—who had gone pale, even paler than she had been when Brigid walked into the room, which was saying something.

“No, I’m—” Elaine stopped talking. She hurried to Leo’s side, staring at the book – Brigid wasn’t sure she was actually _reading_ – over his shoulder. “The Clawspawn was left in the ruins that were displaced,” she murmured.

“Seems to be,” Leo said, raising an eyebrow at her. “Ms. O’Blake – is there something you might want to share with the rest of us?”

“We need to get to the ruins,” she said, very quickly. “We need to get to them _now_. If—oh, Merlin—”

“Elaine?” the man in Muggle clothing asked. “What’s going on?”

“Morgan’s stronghold,” Elaine said, pointing to the book, “and my mother’s murder—and now Rowan—oh, _Merlin_ —and she said this had something to do with Rowan—”

“Who?” the man in Muggle clothing asked. “Elaine—”

“We need to get to the ruins,” Elaine interrupted. “If what I think—Morgan left them for a reason—and this—this is _too much_ coincidence—”

“What is?” asked Leo.

And that seemed to draw Elaine out of—whatever she was in. “Morgan was attacked,” she said, “I’m sure it’s all in the book—but all Gorloises know this story. Or at least the bare outlines of it. Her stronghold—her _daughter_ —was attacked. Morgan was able to fend the attacker off—but the stronghold—yes, displaced, that’s what happened. When my mother told me the story—I didn’t understand at first—but now I know—now it all makes sense.” She took a deep breath. “If those ruins are Morgan’s stronghold—or if someone just _thinks_ they’re Morgan’s stronghold—then Rowan is in a world of trouble! And if those other kids are anywhere near the ruins, they are in just as much danger!”

“We need to go, then,” Filius said – and that seemed to break some kind of stasis.

“Now hold on just a moment!” Rove said, standing up and trying – so very hard – to look impressive. “This is all baseless conjecture! We still have no idea what—”

“Rove, so _help_ me,” Elaine almost spun on her heel, “if we don’t set out in the next five minutes, I am calling in a Code Wrackspurt and damn the consequences! And do you remember what happened to this school the last time my boss showed up in the middle of the night? Because _I do_!”

Brigid wasn’t sure what that meant—but by the way Hagrid, Filius, Pomona, and Neville all gasped, they did.

Rove’s normally florid face paled. He slowly sat down.

“We’ve got four kids missing, Maxwell, and this is our best shot at finding them,” Leo said, probably unnecessarily. “You want to explain to their parents why we sat here twiddling our thumbs when we knew they were in danger and had a good idea where they were?”

“We have to go, Maxwell. We have to try to find our students,” Filius added.

Rove could do nothing other than nod.

“All right then,” Leo said. “Neville, Hagrid? You up for a walk?”

“Always,” said Neville, grinning a little manically.

“I’ll get me crossbow,” nodded Hagrid.

“Great. We’ll grab Camilla on the way down.”

“And I’m coming too,” Elaine added.

“ _We’re_ coming too,” the man in Muggle clothing corrected.

Elaine shot him a short, appraising look. “You know first aid, don’t you?”

“Rowan has to practice with someone,” the man said with a bit of a smile.

“We’re coming too,” Elaine said to Leo.

Leo didn’t argue. “Pomona—Rosie—Neville, you might want to take that spell off her—”

Neville shot Leo a plaintive, pleading look.

“Well, before we leave,” Leo corrected. “Anyway, the other kids’ parents should be notified. Now is as good a time as any.” He glanced at Elaine. “As for calling in outside assistance …”

“If we get into real trouble, I can call in an alert that has every Auror on duty to us in five minutes,” Elaine said.

“I think I can manage that too,” Neville said. “I doubt the codes are the same—but, well, the people who count will recognize my Patronus. Among … other things.” He jingled the coins in his pocket.

“Good,” Leo said. “All the same—Filius, if we haven’t sent word back within two hours, send for help.”

Filius nodded.

“Let’s move,” Leo said with one brisk nod. But he paused. And looked at Miri.

Miri’s eyes went wide.

“Mind if we hold on to this?” he asked, holding up the book in one hand.

“I—um—it’s not mine …” Miri muttered.

“It’s Rowan’s,” Elaine said. Then, with a glare in Rove’s direction, “My mother left it to her.”

“Your … _mother_?” asked the man in Muggle clothing.

“It’s complicated,” Elaine said.

And that was seemed to be all that needed to be said. Hagrid handed Chance back to Miri without a word. Only Neville spoke, and he merely pointed his wand over his shoulder and muttered, “ _Finite incantatem,_ ” in Rosie’s direction before beating a quick retreat out the door.

Brigid saw why. “Of all the—that blood traitor! That half-blood— _mongrel_! If they got the new matriarch killed—”

“Rosie, hush,” Pomona said. “That’s not important right now. Now you need to get in touch with Vivianne’s mother, let her know what’s going on.”

Rosie’s eyes went wide. “But—she’s in _France_!”

“Then you’d best hurry,” said Filius, very coldly.

Rosie blinked – but she went pale, and without another word, she rushed out the door.

“I’ll fire-talk Ms. Duncan,” Pomona said, hurrying out of the office.

“We should get the rest of the students into their common rooms,” Filius said to Rove. “I’ll take care of that.”

Miri flagged, and Brigid saw it. “Filius—if we send Miri back, she’s going to get mobbed. She can stay with me in my office until we hear back?”

“I don’t—” Rove started.

“I think that’s a grand idea,” Filius said with a smile for Miri. “Although, Brigid, would you mind helping me make sure the students are where they’re supposed to be?”

“Certainly. Miri, you stay with me,” Brigid said. Miri nodded.

They started to leave, but a sputtering Rove stopped them. “Wait—what am I—what about Moore’s emergency contact?”

“Oh, I thought you could take care of that, Maxwell,” said Filius – and unless Brigid was seeing things, he definitely had a … well, a rather evil grin. “I daresay you already have the contact information.”

“I—I most certainly—”

“His emergency contact, if I remember correctly, is C. Madeline Corbie,” Filius went on. “But if you can’t remember her details offhand, and if they’re not in your records – which they _should_ be – I’m sure you can contact her son in a pinch. Chauncey Corbie? The school governor?”

With that, Filius shooed Brigid and Miri out the door. But Brigid couldn’t help one last backwards glance.

She’d never forget the dead-white, panicked expression on Rove’s face. Not as long as she lived.


	49. Chapter 48: Sarajevo 12/24

**Chapter 48: Sarajevo 12/24**

Outside the warded study, the not-tiger-thing was not happy. Vivianne could hear it growling and throwing itself at the door, bouncing back with howls of pain whenever the wards activated against it.

Inside the warded study, Vivianne and Ben had a pile of scrolls and books lain before them. Zach was looking at the pile with no small amount of frustration. “What can I do to help?”

Vivianne flashed him a quick smile. “Keep the lights on, and make sure that thing,” she gestured to the door, “doesn’t get in.”

Zach glanced at the door with a raised eyebrow. “I think Morgan has the latter all set.”

“Well, we still gotta worry about the lights, buddy,” Ben added.

“Preferably without blowing us up.”

“I didn’t blow us up.”

Vivianne snorted but said nothing.

Morgan’s handwriting – even in runes – was clear and even, if somewhat rushed. It wasn’t taking long to toss aside things that they didn’t need – experimental notes, financial records, even a couple solidified wax tablets that looked suspiciously like shopping lists.

What could be useful, however, was going to take more sorting through.

There were sketches and maps. Lists of passwords. A series of short, cryptic notes that could be about just about anything. Vivianne squinted, trying to make sense of everything before her, and trying to do it quickly. She was good at Ancient Runes, but this—

“What the bloody hell is she on about?” Vivianne snapped, tossing one of the parchments on the table. “There’s—I can see something about a blood protection—but _that’s_ going to do us a fat lot of good—Merlin!”

The not-a-tiger outside the door roared. “Oh, you shut up!” Vivianne shouted.

Meanwhile, Ben had his head tilted to one side, staring at the parchment. “What’s this about a sword?”

“A—what?” Vivianne asked.

“This.” Ben pointed to the rune. “Sword, weapon—but in this context? It’s lookin’ like sword to me.”

“A … sword …” Vivianne murmured. She looked again at the parchment. Maybe it was because she refused to be shown up by a Gryffindork, but the runes seemed a bit clearer this time around. There was the sword rune – and a rune of shielding right next to it, almost certainly armor in this context – and right before the pair of them—

Vivianne gasped.

“What?” Zach asked.

“That,” her finger jabbed the parchment, “that’s Arthur’s sigil. It’s—it’s in a few places in Caer Tintagel—”

“Arthur’s sigil?” Zach asked. “And—a sword? Caliburn?”

“More or less,” Vivianne answered, because getting into the fact that the sword wasn’t named in the Gorlois family records – or at least, not in any records she had ever seen – would take too long. “And …” She continued to scan the parchment. “Oh— _shit_.”

“What?” asked Zach.

“That,” Ben said, “that’s a blood lock, isn’t it?” He pointed. “An’ …” He squinted. “A love lock? The hell?”

“Blood,” Vivianne said, “blood protection – spells that prevent the sword from being touched by anyone who doesn’t have Morgan’s – or, well, Arthur’s too I suppose – blood. Love, however—if someone with Morgan’s blood presents the sword to her true love—then the blood protection is null. He—or she, really—can handle it without … well, dying.”

Ben blinked. “This must be one helluva sword.”

Vivianne wasn’t so sure. Scribbled on the side of the parchment in a hand that was definitely Morgan’s was a series of runes that translated to, as far as she could determine, _Too complicated – it’s a sword – should have tossed it in the lake._

If they hadn’t been locked in a study, with Rowan Merlin-knew-where and a big cat with a nasty temper right outside, she would have laughed.

Then, she blinked.

_Love protection …_

_I was dosed with love potion …_

“Fuck,” Vivianne muttered under her breath and kept reading. As she’d hoped, there was a description not just of _what_ protected the sword, but _where_ it was protected. Vivianne reached for one of the maps and the list of passwords, scanning both, looking from parchment to notes to—

It couldn’t be.

Vivianne looked across the room, at one of the only portions of the interior wall that wasn’t covered by a bookshelf. True, that seemed to be because it had a mosaic of the Garden of the Hesperides on it – or some tree bearing golden apples, because it wasn’t like there was a shortage of those in mythology – but unless she was very wrong …

“Vivianne?” asked Zach.

“Care to share what’s goin’ through your mind?” echoed Ben.

“I think I know where Rowan is!” She started grabbing parchments and stuffing them into her bag – starting with the description of the sword.

“Great,” Ben pointed out, “but there’s still a big kitty sittin’ outside the door – an’ I don’t know about you, but to me, it doesn’t sound too happy.”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re not using that door. Moore? That’s a pocket panel,” she pointed to the mosaic, “I’m going to need you to move it. If you just press down on the third apple from the left …”

Ben raised an eyebrow at her, waved his wand, and the mosaic tiles making up the named apple depressed. The mosaic moved a few inches into the wall and slid soundlessly to the right, revealing a long, marbled passage.

“… Bloody show-off,” Vivianne muttered. “Come on, then. This way.”

She strode down the corridor, head high, not waiting for the boys to catch up.

“And I hope you brought your climbing boots,” she continued, “because we’ll be heading a long way up.”

* * *

“So, any ideas why Morgan went through something this elaborate when she obviously wanted to dump the stuff in the lake? She should’ve; could you just imagine the Giant Squid wielding a sword and a one of those leather-skirted Roman get-ups?” Ben asked as they made yet another turn on the seemingly unending stairwell up. The stairs were narrow and switchback, stuffed into a shaft that was narrow enough that Zach could hear Ben’s leather jacket sleeve rasp against the walls if he did anything more than let his arms hang at his side.

“Are you trying to be annoying, or are you just naturally so?” Vivianne looked over her shoulder.

“Little a’ Column A, little a’ Column B,” Ben said. “It’s still a valid question, despite the framing.”

“I don’t know. My grandmother never really had time to get into a lot of this. We—thought we’d have more time. I suppose you wouldn’t understand that,” she said sharply.

Zach glanced back at Ben, whose eyebrows knitted together before one sprang toward his hairline. Half a heartbeat later, all expression left his face and Vivianne turned back toward the stairwell. “Being left holding a bag of questions that will never be answered because the only person who could answer them is dead? Not getting to do all of the things you’d have wanted to do with someone you loved because their life was cut short? Knowing you’ll spend the rest of your life having your memories of someone colored by how other people interpreted them because you didn’t have a chance to fully form your own opinion of them?” Ben asked quietly. “Yeah, I don’t know nothin’ bout that.”

“The questions themselves say otherwise, so lay it on me, Moore: what’s your ‘how I’ve got it worse than you’ sob story?”

“I don’t have it worse than you, Vivianne. I have parents, _two_ of them,” something about the emphasis told Zach that Ben knew somehow that Vivianne’s father was not around, “who love and care for me, who’ve done their best to teach me right from wrong and green from red so to speak.”

Vivianne snorted.

“They’re just not _my_ parents, Vivianne,” Ben added. Vivianne actually whirled around and faced Ben, a complicated stew of something on her face. “My parents are dead.”

“So the parents you mentioned?” she asked, her voice harsh.

“My aunt and uncle. My father’s sister and her husband.” Ben shook his head and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “And it’s true; I don’t really know what your circumstances are like. My parents died when I was only a few months old.”

“Oh.” She frowned slightly. “For what it’s worth – which is very little, I’m sure – I am sorry to hear about your parents.”

“It’s okay; it only hurts when I’m breathin’. An’—I really do wish, for true, you’da had more time with your grandmother. If nothin’ else, havin’ someone who actually has a fuckin’ clue what we might find at the top of these stairs …” Ben said with an emotive shrug. “But we might want to get up in there while we might be of some use to Rowan. Just sayin’.”

“Point, Moore.”

“And not even on my head this time.” Ben smirked. Vivianne turned, the heels of her boots clicking on the marble stairs, the swish of her cloak doing little to minimize the sway of her strut. Zach would admit it to no one, but he might’ve focused a little on those swaying hips and not on how much protracted battles with giant muddy tigers followed by endless stair climbing was no way to prepare for a coming battle.

Finally, a door appeared on a small platform, signaling the top of the stairs. Like the study door, it was warded. Unlike the study door, the wards were not activated. Whoever had Rowan couldn’t activate them, apparently, and – he swallowed hard, hoping this didn’t say something about the state that his friend was in – she hadn’t been able to activate them either.

“Here goes nothin’,” Ben muttered as the purple light flickered on above them. Vivianne more or less kicked the door open, exposing a mostly empty antechamber.

But only mostly. There was—someone …

The candles in the chamber lit themselves in a great whoosh, falling on somber, expensive linen robes and a familiar set of shoulders. He turned.

“You!”

* * *

It was dark. And Rowan was cold.

Her thoughts were muzzy—not clear, not distinct. She was—somewhere. Where? She didn’t know. Somewhere hard and cold and dark. Somewhere—somewhere she …

The thoughts refused to come. Rowan groaned and opened her eyes.

_Oh. So that’s why it was dark._

But opening her eyes did little good. She couldn’t see much of anything – just a bright blur.

Something that was stranger, thought, was that none of this struck her as being particularly worrying. Merely curious. And perhaps not even that.

Rowan slowly tried to sit up – she was laying down, sprawling, really – and she noticed something else.

Her arms ran across the smooth wooden floor. Her bare arms. And—Rowan slowly brought her free hand up and down her body—her legs were bare too. All she was wearing was something—Rowan squinted—something that looked and felt like a lacy black babydoll dress, very short.

_Huh. I guess that’s why I’m cold._

Her arms protested vaguely as she hauled herself up. She was stiff and achy all over. How long had she been lying—wherever she was?

And where were her glasses?

“Are you awake, _ma petite_?”

That voice—she knew that voice—it made her stomach clench in something like fear—

“It is good you are awake,” the voice said. It was accompanied by a – blur – moving toward her. Rowan squinted. “Here,” the voice said, holding something out toward her, “your spectacles. Though I will say, your eyes are much prettier without them.”

Rowan winced, even if she wasn’t quite sure why.

“But do not worry. I do not judge.” The glasses were slipped onto her face, and suddenly the word snapped into focus.

Mr. Bellerose was smiling at her. It was the same unctuous smile that used to make Rowan’s hackles rise and her heart start pounding. Now, there was still a tendril of alarm, but it felt like it was coming from a long way off.

“I am sure you would be much less pretty covered in bruises,” Mr. Bellerose went on, still wearing that smile. “As would happen—if you were not wearing your spectacles— _oui_?”

Rowan found herself nodding, because she wasn’t sure what else to do. She couldn’t think. Where was she? Why was Mr. Bellerose here?

And why on earth was there a large table in the center of the room, with what looked like a sword and armor of some kind lying on top?

“But as I was saying,” he went on, “it is good that you are awake. We are just about to begin this night’s main event. But first—a little drink?”

He held out a mug. Some kind of instinct that hadn’t been completely deadened made Rowan jerk away.

“Come now,” he said, holding it closer. “It will help you feel better. And make you warmer.”

_Warmer?_ Rowan blinked. There _was_ a spiral of steam coming off the mug. And now that Mr. Bellerose mentioned it, she wasn’t feeling well at all.

“W-w-what—” Rowan started to ask, because it seemed like a good thing to ask, but that was as far as she got.

“You will feel better once you drink,” said Mr. Bellerose. He slipped his hand behind Rowan’s head, cupping it gently, and coaxed her up to drink.

Before the liquid ran down her throat, Rowan saw that it had a beautiful mother-of-pearl sheen. And it smelled – well, wonderful. There was the smell of leather and old books, of the Darjeeling tea her father always brewed when she came home from school, and a third smell: a woodsy smell of sandalwood and cedar, with a spicy undertone of ginger, nutmeg, and just a hint of leather.

Rowan almost gasped. But she couldn’t, because Mr. Bellerose was pouring the liquid down, and once that happened—

It didn’t taste like much of anything. It was more a feeling. A warmth bloomed deep in her belly. A bubble of giddiness bloomed in her. And—

_Julien!_

The thought crashed over her like a warm, soapy wave. Julien, with his slim shoulders and lean build. Julien smiling at her during archaeology class. Julien touching her arm or resting a hand on her shoulder. Julien—

Julien was here now!

He was _smiling_ at her!

The realization caused the butterflies to explode in her stomach with a sensation was that just shy of—no—it _was_ painful.

But Rowan didn’t care. Because if Julien was smiling—

She didn’t care.

But it did hurt.

And there was something—

Julien was stroking her cheek. His touch felt smooth, oily even. “Better, _ma petite_?”

Rowan found herself nodding, because if she nodded he might smile, even though the butterflies were very painful indeed—

Julien frowned and Rowan’s face fell. “A bit more, perhaps?” He held the mug under her nose. The three wonderful scents hit her again, only this time, the third one – of wood and spice and leather – seemed stronger—

She took a deep breath—

_Snuggling in a study lounge, an arm around her shoulders, breathing deep and letting the smell of cedar and spice and leather surround her—_

_A hand held tightly in hers in Professor Lipskit’s office—_

_Standing on tiptoe to drop a kiss on a cheek—_

_Her arm through another’s on a walk through a winter woods, staying close even though her heart beat fast, because—because—_

_“So what oozed out of the skunk?” a voice murmuring in her ear. “Other than cheese and stale game, a’course.”_

That voice …

_Ben!_

But—Julien was right here—and he looked worried—and Rowan couldn’t let him worry, that would be—would be—

“I think,” Julien said, “you need a bit more. Here—”

_“The point still stands—just because Mister ‘I’m so French I piss Chardonnay and crap out Jerry Lewis movies’ is creeping on you like Michael Myers does his sister—only with hopefully less butcher knives—doesn’t mean that he’s the only guy who has any interest in you. Don’t sell yourself short.”_

_“Actually, I think you look a lot like Taylor Swift—if shorter—and nobody’d say_ she _wasn’t pretty.”_

_“I’ll see you after you get back. Don’t fall for any handsome Muggle doctors or anything if you do go back to London.”_

“No!”

Rowan didn’t know how she got the idea—or the wherewithal—but her hand shot out and batted the mug from Julien’s— _Mr. Bellerose’s_ —hand.

The mug shattered when it hit the floor, spilling a mother-of-pearl liquid that pooled on the floorboards.

For a moment both Rowan and Mr. Bellerose stared at the liquid.

He turned back to Rowan. And Rowan knew—not felt, her brain was still too muzzy for feeling—but by the way her heart pounded and her stomach clenched, she knew she was afraid.

“Is that how it is?” he asked. “Well. We will have to find another way of … persuading you, Mademoiselle O’Blake.”

His hand came up and tangled—painfully—in her hair.

“And this way—you may not like so much.”

* * *

The ruins Leo approached that night were not the ruins he had been coming out to for months. They were alive – dangerous – there was definitely something, something that felt like a thunderstorm boiling up. He guessed he was seeing the gates as they were once upon a time, even if the planks of wood were replaced with ghostly energy flickering with electricity.

“These are the ruins?” Dr. O’Blake asked, sounding horrified.

“They—weren’t like this,” Zanetti reassured him. He didn’t look very reassured. But if anything could ever sit up and scream “The kids are here—and in trouble!” – it was this, right here.

“So did our Dark wizard turn them on—or did one of the kids?” Leo asked Ms. O’Blake.

“I don’t know that a Dark wizard could have turned them on—so many of the Gorlois protections are tied to blood. I’d guess it was Vivianne, though I don’t know that she’d have known how. That doesn’t seem like the sort of thing my mother would have schooled her in.” Ms. O’Blake looked at the book – which seemed to be a lot less helpful than it had been for the little first-year, Miri – as if trying to figure out how to parse a question to it.

“I swear this thing liked Miri better,” the Auror muttered at the seemingly unhelpful book.

“It’s a _book_ ; can it like someone?” Dr. O’Blake asked, his blonde brow shooting skyward.

“Would you—no, I can’t give you the long answer—the short answer? With this book? Yes, yes, it can.” Ms. O’Blake smiled ruefully.

“I don’t suppose—as you’re blood—that _you_ can turn them off?” Longbottom choked up his grip on his wand with one hand and held a cord around his neck in the other. Leo had no idea what was on the cord – he didn’t think anyone knew what was on it, but it was something given to Longbottom by his wife. _“For luck,”_ is all he’d ever say about it. _“Hannah gave it to me for luck.”_

“Someone disowned turning off something the matriarch herself turned on? At more than one point in our history, Neville, disowned Gorloises were precisely what the matriarch needed to protect herself from,” Ms. O’Blake scoffed.

“I was afraid of something like that,” Longbottom sighed.

“It’s not easy being what we—what _Gorloises_ are. Like them or not, they’ve done much to be admired.” Ms. O’Blake looked down at the book in her hands.

“So how _do we_ get past them?” Zanetti asked, chaffing her wrists for warmth.

“There’s a hole in the wall—right by that secret passage,” Leo offered.

Ms. O’Blake considered it. “As I don’t know that Vivianne actively turned them on—she might not have gotten everything—let’s see about that hole.”

Leo led the way, crunching through the snow. The hole in the wall showed no signs of the energy that the gates had shown, but there seemed to be a darker shadow within the shadows that set the hair on the back of Leo’s neck on end.

Leo threw up a hand right before the shadow climbed out of its former hiding place. Light from the lanterns Dr. O’Blake and Hagrid carried hit the stripe-like plates of the creature.

Clawspawn: that was what the book had called it. The fact that it was a construct told him why he’d never heard of it. Having read what went into creating it? It wasn’t right.

Reaching the heart – the only way to kill it – wasn’t going to be easy.

It lunged, and Leo cracked it over the head with his cane.

The Clawspawn stopped just for a moment, shaking its head, little globules of mud spraying the otherwise pristine snow, before raising its fiery eyes to glare directly into Leo’s. When it moved again – quicker than anything that would have had to depend on blood and bone for propelling it, Leo thought – it had dashed back into the hole it had climbed out of.

“Well, shit,” Leo said out loud to no one in particular.

“My kid is in there; no oversized cat is going to stop me from going after her.” Ms. O’Blake’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“And I’m not suggesting that we sit out here with our thumbs up our arses, Ms. O’Blake, but you’ll do your daughter very little good if you’re out here being patched up by him,” he gestured toward Dr. O’Blake, “when she needs you in there.” He looked up at the ruins, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“What is it, Leo?”

“There’s a light in that tower.” He pointed up.

“And that’s significant?” Dr. O’Blake asked.

“What I wouldn’t give for my old Nimbus 1500 right now,” Ms. O’Blake sighed. “I could go straight in the window. My current broom doesn’t have that kind of maneuverability, more’s the pity.”

“Don’t they teach you to look before you shoot in Auror training, Ms. O’Blake?” Leo asked sardonically.

“Do they teach you that sneer in crotchety old man training, Professor Lipskit?” Ms. O’Blake snapped back.

“Sure do.” Leo smirked. Ms. O’Blake started to retort. “Ms. O’Blake, enough.”

“Elaine—do you want to help Rowan, or do you want to get into a pissing match with Leo? He’ll win, by the way,” Longbottom told her.

“I might win.”

“No, you won’t.” Both Hagrid and Longbottom said it together, and that seemed to convince her.

“All right, Professor. I assume you have a plan?”

“As it happens, yes, Ms. O’Blake, I do have one.”

It was a very simple plan, but the less moving parts something had, Leo’s father had often reminded him, the less chance of failure. It came down to bait and a crossbow.

“You’re seriously suggesting that we send the old man with the cane to run from a dark magic construct?” Ms. O’Blake asked incredulously.

“I hope you know I am far nimbler than you might guess. I have two ex-wives, Ms. O’Blake.” Leo smiled faintly. Ms. O’Blake finally chuckled as the rest of their rescue party retreated to their respective places.

“All right, old man – let’s see what you have,” Ms. O’Blake said, approaching the hole in the wall.

Almost immediately, the lantern caught the fiery orbs of the Clawspawn’s eyes; it lunged and Leo harried it with an _Incendio_. When it turned on Leo, Ms. O’Blake hit its flank with another burst of fire.

When they’d drawn it far enough from the hole in the wall and into the clearing, Ms. O’Blake tossed the lantern, dousing the flames and plunging them into darkness, lit only by the glow of the Clawspawn’s eyes – and the heart-gem buried in the shifting mud of its chest.

A moment later, something thunked deep into that chest.

Flame exploded out of the tiger’s form, along with a soul-chilling shriek of torment Leo’d probably be hearing for years.

“The hell was that?” Ms. O’Blake asked from where she’d dived into the snow from the explosion.

“It—um—I think that might have been—” Longbottom rubbed the back of his neck. “It might have been a Horcrux.”

“It …” Ms. O’Blake trailed off.

“I’d take the word of someone who destroyed one,” Leo commented from his own place in the snow.

“Well, I guess the son of a bitch did like to kill people and do shit with their lives, why not a Horcrux?” Ms. O’Blake shrugged before collapsing back into the snow for a moment.

“What … is a Horcrux?” Dr. O’Blake asked finally.

“Trust me when I say you don’t wish to know.” Zanetti patted his shoulder.


	50. Chapter 49: Recipe for Disaster

**Chapter 49: Recipe for Disaster**

It was— _Langley_? _No_ , Ben thought as he looked at the Ministry hack’s face. It might have been Langley’s face, but that wasn’t Langley upstairs. Especially not with the glowing eyes and freakish double face, as if something had been overlain on it.

“I should’ve expected you would find your way up here. Morgan was an interfering whore, and you are her all over again.”

“Hey! Vivianne’s not a whore, and neither was Morgan, you—” Zach, who had stepped in front of Vivianne, broke off.

“Lack-witted pencil dick? Boner-biting bastard? Uncle-fucker? Or no, no, in the spirit of the discovery, perhaps he’s a son of a silly person or a Saxon pig-dog?” Ben offered.

“Are you ever any help?” Vivianne asked over her shoulder.

“Once or twice in a blue moon,” Ben said blandly. “In this case, being helpful – or ‘serious’ might be the more applicable term – would be to take that machismo-overdosed, Limbaugh-worshipping rosy-palmer far more seriously than any man descended of a father who smelt of elderberries and a hamster deserves.”

Ben wouldn’t have guessed that Langley or whatever was possessing him really knew what Ben had just called him. But he’d have had to be dumber than a brick not to get the insult in Ben’s tone. Unfortunately, Langley did have more than two brain cells to rub together, and the air suddenly crackled with energy around them.

“You idiot, Moore!” Vivianne stabbed her wand at Langley, whose eyes had gone past glowing straight to “fucking hairy ass of the devil” red.

“You really think this dude was just gonna step aside and let us in there to get Rowan back? Be serious,” Ben retorted.

“Why? You obviously can’t be!” Vivianne did something that opened several deep cuts in Langley’s chest and shoulder.

“Because it’s better to be the _better_ person,” Ben reminded her.

“You are disarming, Moore. I don’t want to like you, you know.”

* * *

“ _Relashio_!” A jet of sparks came from Langley’s wand.

“ _Protego_!” Ben might have been annoying, but at least he was quick with a Shield Charm.

Vivianne slashed her wand again, _Sectumsempra!_ screamed in her thoughts. A gash opened up on Langley’s forehead—not too deep this time—but even a little blood on the face could be so helpful for them—

“ _Confringo_!”

Langley aimed that spell right for her—

Zach pushed her out of the way and the two fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs and robes. Behind them, part of the wall exploded.

Ben started swearing, quite a creative string of curses that Vivianne might have paid more attention to if they had time. As it was, she slashed her wand again, but her _Sectumsempra_ flew wide—or else Langley (or whatever was controlling Langley) blocked it.

“ _Expelliarmus_!” Zach shouted as they scrambled to their feet.

Langley—no, that wasn’t Langley—whatever it or he was, he laughed as he performed a complicated gesture with his wand. Zach’s spell bounced off, and Zach had to duck to avoid the rebound. “What is this? A _Disarming_ Spell? What do you think that will do to me, you foolish children?”

Just for that, Vivianne pointed her wand directly at Langley’s midsection and thought, _Slugulus eructo!_ A slim line of green light shot out of her wand and hit Langley square in the stomach.

Langley stumbled back, holding his stomach, “What—”

He didn’t get farther than that before he started retching.

“ _Furnunculus_!” Vivianne shouted. Langley’s skin erupted in boils as he continued to retch. “Come _on_ , while he’s distracted!”

“ _Expelliarmus_!” Zach tried again.

This time the spell hit. Langley’s wand flew from his grasp and into Zach’s waiting hand.

And Ben and Vivianne—in a unison that was almost frightening—pointed their wands at Langley and shouted, “ _Stupefy_!”

Two jets of red light shot from their wands. Both hit Langley square in the chest, just as he belched up his first slug.

Langley flew backward, hit the wall, and collapsed in a heap at the bottom of it.

Vivianne barely had a moment to pant and try to remember if she knew any spells to conjure ropes when—something happened.

Langley’s face was _shifting_ , and not because of the boils. As Vivianne watched, something like a mist exited through his mouth and nostrils and—yes—even his ears. Langley’s face – unconscious, boil-covered, and dripping with slug slime – turned into Langley’s face again.

And the mist—

The mist—it didn’t solidify, but it became more substantial. Before them stood … well, it was a bit like a ghost, only somehow more vague and not as bright. Whatever it was, it was dressed like the illustrations Vivianne had seen of Saxon wizards, with trousers and a tunic, a long blond beard, and a _very_ angry expression.

The three of them pointed their wands at it—Vivianne trying to think of spells she knew that would work on a ghost—

The Saxon wizard-ghost’s mouth opened—

Then—terror swept across his face.

The mist was—not dissipating—swirling away, vanishing, like it was being sucked out of the room.

The Saxon ghost screamed—it was a scream that Vivianne didn’t think she would ever forget—Zach grabbed her and held her close, clearly ready to throw them both to the ground—

A bright light filled the room—

The ghost vanished.

There was no sound but three teenagers panting—and Langley, still unconscious, retching up another slug.

“The … _hell_ was that?” Vivianne asked.

“No clue,” Ben said.

“We should probably take the spells off Langley,” Zach murmured. “At least the slug one. He could—he could choke.”

Vivianne nodded, then, grateful Sybilla had taught her this, waved her wand and muttered the counter-curse.

Langley burped and was silent.

“Maybe the boils too?” Zach added.

Vivianne rolled her eyes and cast, “ _Finite_.”

The boils disappeared.

Then, “ _Petrificus totalus_!” Vivianne glanced at Zach. “We have no idea how … whatever _that_ was got into Langley. I’m not taking the risk of him being a willing accomplice.”

“Fair ‘nough,” Ben nodded.

Zach looked between the two of them, shook his head, but didn’t argue. Then, of one mind, the three of them looked across the room, to where there was a second door.

There was a slim line of light coming from under the door.

“Right,” Vivianne said, rolling up her sleeves. “Shall we, boys?”

* * *

Vivianne was making a habit of kicking in doors. Zach seemed to appreciate it. And Ben? Well, he couldn’t complain; he was hardly the type to come in quietly.

“Tsk, tsk, Mademoiselle, such poor manners! What would your _mère_ think to see such a display?”

Ben wished he could be surprised that it was the skunk, still crusted in stale cheese, who occupied the room with the sword and armor. But really—it kinda made sense.

“Leave my mother out of this,” Vivianne snarled and brandished her wand at Mr. Bellerose.

“Wait, wait, wait! This is very alarming, Mademoiselle. We wouldn’t want anyone to get _hurt,_ would we?” He used Rowan’s hair—if Ben could, he was totally chopping that hand off before they were done—to haul her to her feet. Ben felt his eyes widen briefly.

Unsteady and dazed, Rowan was dressed—if you wanted to call it that—in some pretty racy lingerie: a pair of lacy panties that dollars to donuts probably sported a thong in the back. (because what would an ensemble like that be without some butt floss?) a sheer mesh-and-lace babydoll over the top, one of the straps falling down her shoulder. There must have been enough underwire in that thing to patch the Hindenburg, because while Ben wasn’t overly familiar with Rowan’s boobs, they were not naturally that … _perky_ in anything he’d seen her in. It was shimmery, almost iridescent, like spider silk, maybe?

Zach was blushing six ways to Sunday; even his ears were scarlet. And Vivianne? Vivianne looked _pissed._

Mr. Bellerose’s shirt was unbuttoned almost to the waist – and there were chest hair and man nipples involved in that situation. Classy.

Rowan wobbled on her feet, a spaced-out expression on her face.

“Speaking of alarming _and_ my mother, however – did you raid her lingerie closet, or did she just leave that number on your floor one night?” Vivianne said, choking up her grip on her wand.

“Charming.”

* * *

Vivianne snorted. Her wand hand twitched.

And that was all it took for Bellerose to jerk Rowan closer to him, holding her in front of him like a shield. Rowan mewled, but other than that barely reacted and didn’t try to resist. She looked … not even frightened. Confused, dazed.

_What the hell did he do to her?_

“I should be very careful, Mademoiselle Gorlois,” Bellerose said, shoving his wand against Rowan’s throat. “Very careful. I do not want to hurt _la petite_ , but—”

_Sectumsempra!_ Vivianne thought, and slashed, and Bellerose yelped when a cut ran down his arm.

First blood. That felt good.

“We already made short work of your friend out there,” Vivianne said. “And _he_ tangled with Morgan herself—somehow. Do you really want to see what we can to do you?”

“Just let Rowan go,” Zach added. His wand was pointed directly at Bellerose. “It’s three on one.”

Bellerose raised an eyebrow, and without a word jabbed his wand against Rowan. Rowan yelped and her knees buckled. Bellerose grabbed her—right across the breasts—and kept her from falling. “Really? Three children against one adult? Do you young ones not know that I was chosen by Beauxbatons to have the chance to represent the school in the Triwizard Tournament? You have no idea what I can do. What I have done!”

Vivianne rolled her eyes. “Was that the year that a fourteen-year-old Gryffindork managed to sneak into the contest and win the whole thing? Because if so, I’m really not impressed.”

Bellerose hissed, jabbed the wand toward Rowan again—

“ _Protego_!” Zach and Ben shouted in unison. Bellerose’s spell flashed against the shield and spots appeared in Vivianne’s vision. Rowan yelped.

Bellerose looked from the boys to Rowan to Vivianne. “So. Is that how it is to be?”

He pointed his wand at Vivianne. “ _Sagittae_!” A burst of arrows exploded from his wand.

“ _Conjunctivito_!” Vivianne shouted in reply, before ducking out of the way of the arrows.

And so it began.

* * *

It took only a couple of back-and-forths – Vivianne’s Conjunctivitis Curse had apparently glanced Bellerose, enough that he wasn’t seeing _well_ even if he was seeing – for Zach to know that they were severely hampered by Mr. Bellerose’s use of Rowan as a shield.

It was painful to see the way Rowan was being manhandled by that fucker, and he was glad that Jon wasn’t here – because if he saw Rowan, dressed like that, and Bellerose using her as a shield? They’d be burying Bellerose in a bucket, because nothing bigger than a scrap of confetti would survive the encounter.

“Ben!” Zach hissed, hoping Bellerose was more focused on Vivianne than on the two of them. She was, after all, the bigger danger, and Bellerose knew it.

“‘Sup?” Ben drawled.

“We need to get Rowan away from him.” Ben nodded, eyes never leaving their target. “But … short of …”

“Shooting her in the leg?” Ben asked. “Wait.”

“No!” Zach said sharply, glaring at the Gryffindor. “We are _not_.”

“No, no, I wasn’t thinking of that. At _all_ ,” Ben said. “He’s barely taking his eyes off Vivianne, but a shield doesn’t do shit for flank attacks. If I come at him from just enough angle that he’s got to divide his protections between me an’ her, he’ll likely discard Rowan as a shield, because she’ll have become more of a liability than a gain.”

“Then I can get over there and get her.” Zach said, biting his lip and tossing a shield charm between Vivianne and Bellerose. Ben nodded. “All right, let me get into place.”

“Good luck.” Ben said, moving himself, giving wide berth to the table at the center of the tower room. Zach took the same precaution as he worked his way around.

Ben’s spells were flashier, more distracting than Vivianne’s, even if hers did more damage. Her brows knitted, but she didn’t look at Zach, even though he would guess she would come to the right solution quick enough.

* * *

The distraction was doing more or less what Ben had suggested. Ben knew his plan had worked when Bellerose threw—literally flung—Rowan to the floor, something that elicited one of those eerie snarls in tandem from Ben and Vivianne. Ben was glad for peripheral vision; he saw Zach creeping across the floor without having to take his eyes off Bellerose, whose own peripheral vision was compromised by his eyes being nearly swollen shut.

Ben worked a little bit more to the side, herding Bellerose from Rowan just a little further, giving Zach a little more space.

But good luck only went so far, because Zach hadn’t gotten Rowan more than half a dozen steps when Bellerose’s eyes and attention snapped to the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw trying to make their escape. His wand rose in a direction probably none of them was expecting.

Toward _Rowan,_ not Zach – Rowan. Time seemed to slow as it had when Ben had flipped the coin on whether Rowan would go to Igraine’s funeral, but Ben was never going to get this Shield Charm off in time.

“ _Electrica cordis_!” Bellerose shouted, and a bolt of blue-white electricity shot out of his wand.

“No!” Zach pushed Rowan out of the way, the bolt hitting him in the side, just above the hip.

“What the fuck did you do to him?” Vivianne screamed. “If he’s not okay—”

“I’m— _ow_ —okay, Vivianne,” Zach gasped.

“Well, well, your boy toy is tougher than your grandmother, Mademoiselle,” Bellerose mocked coldly. “She went down on the first hit.”

“You fucking son of a coke whore!”

The entire battle stopped for just a moment. Just a single few heart beats. That was _Rowan_. Brandishing a wand—Langley’s, maybe—that was shaking like a cheap vibrating bed—but that was _Rowan._

* * *

Rowan’s hand was shaking. The wand was shaking.

Everything was shaking.

But her gaze was trained on Bellerose.

He was aiming Merlin-knew-what spells at Ben and Vivianne. He’d hurt Zach. And he—he—

He’d killed Vivianne’s grandmother.

He’d killed _Rowan’s_ grandmother. She’d never even had a chance to meet her grandmother, not properly, and he—

Bellerose laughed. “And what will you do, _ma petite_? That is not your wand, no? That looks like Monsieur Langley’s. I would like to see you try to—”

“ _P-Petrificus—_ ” Rowan started.

She never got a chance to finish. Bellerose howled as a bloody gash ripped across his stomach.

“ _Flipendo_!” Vivianne shouted, and he went flying into one of the walls.

But it only slowed him for a second. He shouted, “ _Electrica_!” and more blue-white electricity shot from his wand.

“ _Protego_!” That was Ben; the electricity flashed against the Shield Charm.

“ _Furnunculus_!” Vivianne shouted. She slashed her wand again, and this time a gash opened on Bellerose’s side. Then, “ _Relashio_!”

Bellerose had his wand up, doing complicated motions—

And Rowan realized she wasn’t going to be able to help much in this.

She turned to Zach. “Zach? Are y-y-you ok?”

“I’m fine,” he said. But he was pale and holding his side.

“N-n-no, you’re n-n-not, let me—” Rowan lifted the wand and stopped.

The long stick of hawthorn in her hand just—didn’t feel right. And healing spells weren’t easy.

But it was what she—

_Wait …_

Rowan blinked.

Behind Zach was her school trunk, bag—and Darwin, somehow sleeping in his owl cage.

Could she hope?

“ _Accio_ my wand!” she shouted, pointing the wand at her trunk.

The wand didn’t want to cooperate. She could feel that it was slow, sluggish. But the power burst out, and her willow wand flew toward her.

_Yes!_ Rowan dropped the spare wand and kicked it away. “H-here—l-let me s-s-see.”

Zach took his hand off his side. The spell had eaten through his shirt, and Rowan could see the angry red burn.

“ _Gelata_ ,” she said. A cool winter wind, followed by snowflakes that settled on Zach’s skin, followed. What the wound really needed was burn paste, but for now … “B-b-better?”

Zach nodded.

Rowan flashed him a smile. “ _Accio_ c-cloak.” Her cloak flew right to her shoulders.

And her own wand in hand, she turned back to the fray.

* * *

“ _Serpensortia_!” The snake jumped from Vivianne’s wand and slithered closer to Bellerose.

Bellerose aimed a Blasting Curse for the snake.

“ _Pugna intestini_!” Vivianne shouted.

“ _Protego_!” Bellerose shouted back.

Vivianne tossed off another hex. She barely knew what spells she was casting any more. All she could think was—

_He killed Grandmother._

_He killed her._

_Killed._

_Grandmother!_

When she got her hands on him—when she had pummeled him into the dust with magic—she was going to—

Bellerose sent a spell at her. Vivianne didn’t try to block, but it exploded in a flash of light three feet before her anyway.

“ _Incendio_!” Vivianne shouted.

She had the satisfaction of hearing him yelp before he shouted, “ _Aguamenti_!” and his jet of water met her fire.

Disappointing. She would—

“ _Entr—_ ” Bellerose started, but he choked halfway through. He sent a shocked glance in Rowan and Zach’s direction.

Zach—

_He’d hurt Zach_ —

“ _Deprimo_!” Vivianne shouted.

Bellerose barely blocked it. She raised her wand again—

“ _Expelliarmus_!”

That wasn’t her. Or Bellerose.

The spell hit Bellerose in a flash of red light. His mouth opened in a silent yelp.

His wand flew out of his hand—

And into Ben’s.

Vivianne’s gaze whipped back to Bellerose.

He was pressed against the wall. He’d gone white. He scrabbled against it, as if by sheer will he could push a few of the stones loose and tumble out—

To his death, most probably—

Vivianne’s eyes narrowed.

He wasn’t getting off that easily.

_Levicorpus!_ Vivianne thought.

Bellerose’s mouth gaped like a fish’s, open in a silent scream as the spell lifted him by the ankle and hung him upside-down.

“You,” Vivianne said. Her voice was raw, rough even in her own ears. “You—you— _bastard_!”

She twitched her wand. Bellerose flew through the air—stopping in the middle of the room.

Right above the table that held the armor.

“You know what that armor will do, don’t you?” Vivianne asked.

By the way Bellerose struggled—kept his arms well up—and stared terrified at the armor below him, Vivianne guessed he did.

“It’s—it’s been you this whole bloody time, hasn’t it? Poisoning me. Creep—creeping on Rowan. And—and that tiger-thing, it was working under your orders, wasn’t it?”

Bellerose shook his head frantically, but Vivianne didn’t care.

“And then you—you kidnapped little Rowan. And you hurt Zach!” Vivianne shouted. “But that—I could almost _forgive_ that—

“ _But you killed my grandmother_!”

She dropped him—not all the way—just an inch. Just enough to see the terror bloom across his face.

“She—she was—” Vivianne didn’t know how to say it. What came out was true, but it wasn’t enough. “She was all I had! And you took her!”

Her hand was starting to shake. But that was all right. Bellerose was started to bounce up and down with the motion.

“Give me,” Vivianne swallowed, “give me _one good reason_ why I shouldn’t drop you.”

Bellerose was shaking his head, and his mouth was moving very quickly. He was—crying?

Good. Let him cry. Let him _feel_ it—

“ _VIVIANNE_!”

Vivianne started. She turned.

Zach was striding toward her. “Vivianne, stop. Put him down.”

“He killed my grandmother!” Vivianne shouted back, and—was that a sob?

“It’s not worth it, Vivianne.”

“Not worth it? Zach! She was—” Vivianne stared at Bellerose, lost for words. “What would you do if it was your mum? If someone took her from you?”

“She wouldn’t want you to do this.”

“No!” Vivianne shook her head. “No! Maybe your mum wouldn’t—but my grandmother would want revenge! She’d want him to _pay_!”

“And he bloody well will, but not like this! Vivianne!” Zach held her by both shoulders and stared into her eyes. “Not at the cost of you becoming a murderer! Like him!”

Vivianne stared at Zach. But she could see nothing other than earnestness in his eyes.

She looked at Bellerose.

She looked at her wand.

Then she looked up at Bellerose again.

Her wand twitched. The spell formed in her mind—

Bellerose went flying across the room and slammed into the wall. He tumbled to the ground. As soon as he hit, Vivianne shouted, “ _Petrificus totalus_!”

She stared back at Zach, tossing her head. “You never said to put him down gently.”

Zach didn’t answer. Not at first. He looked over his shoulder.

Vivianne looked that way as well.

What she saw was mostly Ben. But there were hints of something else. Rowan’s slim bare arms around his back, clinging to him. A hint of a leg draped mostly in a cloak.

And now that the blood wasn’t pounding in her ears, Vivianne heard something.

Sobbing.

Rowan was sobbing.

Zach pulled Vivianne closer, kissed her forehead, and rubbed her back. “Who said I wanted you to put him down gently?”


	51. Chapter 50: Silent Night

**Chapter 50: Silent Night**

“Another shut and locked door. This one—however—is glowing,” Longbottom reported, trotting back to the group of adults.

“Warded.” Ms. O’Blake sighed, explosively.

“Your family is very fond of their wards, aren’t they?” Dr. O’Blake fussed with his glasses and his coat yet again.

“It’s usually better than the alternative,” Ms. O’Blake returned, smoothing her hair and twitching the sleeves on her shirt, the likes of which the fashion industry had been recycling since the nineteen seventies. In fashion terms, Leo figured, the seventies were Voldemort: a bad thing that really should die for good and true, but no one had figured out the right way to kill. Yet. Leo hoped there was a yet.

“In this case, it’s just keeping me from my daughter,” Dr. O’Blake muttered.

“ _Our_ daughter – and I didn’t say I was happy about it,” Ms. O’Blake countered.

“Would pointing out to them that arguing isn’t helping us get to their kid any quicker do anything at all?” Zanetti asked Leo quietly as Hagrid moved to defuse the situation. Leo quirked an eyebrow at her. “You’re the one with two ex-wives.”

“My ex-wives might like to bicker with me, but never when there’s shit to be done,” Leo said with an expressive shrug. Both of the O’Blakes immediately fell silent.

“Elaine?” A voice called out from somewhere in the ruins. It was tired and a little out of breath, but familiar. Belonging to one of their missing kids, Duncan – who Lipskit knew Rove would rant up, down, and sideways should have told them about Rowan being missing.

Ms. O’Blake started and looked around the ruins. “Zach? Where are you?”

“Door Professor Longbottom was just at. Rowan says you’re gonna ask me a weird question?” Duncan’s voice called back.

“I probably should. Just to make sure,” Ms. O’Blake muttered, then her voice rose. “What’s my favorite popcorn flavor?”

“Truffle butter with Parmesan,” Duncan called back. “And you threaten anyone who says it’s too bloody French with cleaning your movie monster bobble-heads, using no magic.”

“It’s Zach,” Ms. O’Blake confirmed.

“Rowan? Rowan’s with you?” Dr. O’Blake called.

“Robert? What are you doing at _Hogwarts_?” Duncan asked, sounding bewildered.

“It’s a long story.” They rounded the wall leading into the hallway that lead to the alcove and the door that had once been sealed and warded. Duncan sported a burn straight through his shirt and looked exhausted, but he offered them that familiar sheepish, but sweet and welcoming grin that, far more than all the popcorn knowledge in the world could, solidified that it was really Duncan.

“Looks like you’ve got one too,” Dr. O’Blake said. “Should I look at that?” Pointing at the burned patch on Duncan’s hip.

“It’s fine.” He said it in that way that only teenagers could – that “must be brave” way.

Rowan’s father flattened his lips into a line but finally sighed. “All right.”

“Why did they send you, if you’re injured?” Ms. O’Blake asked, putting an arm around Duncan’s shoulder.

“They didn’t, exactly. I kinda volunteered. Vivianne’s exhausted—and Ben—well, he was trying to coax Rowan into letting go of him and getting dressed again.” Duncan scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Besides, if Mr. Bellerose wakes up, Ben has a better chance of saving his life from Vivianne than I do.”

“Bellerose?” Almost all of Leo’s group spoke in unison, some incredulous, some pissed, some – well – mostly just Leo – resigned.

“Um, yeah. It’s part of that long story,” Duncan admitted.

“Any other surprises we should know about?” Ms. O’Blake asked, not unsympathetically.

“You ever wanted to know where Arthur’s arms and armor ended up?” Duncan asked with rather black humor.

“Oh, Merlin.” Ms. O’Blake gave another of those explosive sighs. “I thought they threw it in a lake.”

“Morgan wanted to. Vivianne and Ben found some notes of hers about it; she wrote something like that in a margin.” Duncan had led them into a passage and was now staring at the staircase that stretched _up_ with a distinct look of distaste.

“We’re going _up_ , I take it?” Zanetti asked.

“Unfortunately,” Duncan muttered and started up the stairs, explaining as he went what had happened with the kids, more or less.

Dr. O’Blake looked like he was about to explode. “Your family risks too much,” he snarled at Ms. O’Blake.

“Even if Rowan went back to London and spent the rest of her life living like a Squib, Robert, she’s _still_ of Gorlois blood; there’s nothing we can do about that,” Ms. O’Blake snapped back. “And _she_ should be making that decision, _not_ you. And if you pressure her about it, I’ll turn you into the ass I didn’t turn Rosie into.”

“She’s a child! She’s too young to be making decisions like that. She doesn’t have the perspective,” Dr. O’Blake insisted.

“What’s the old saying, ‘it takes a mule to repeat an ass’s bray’? You don’t have the perspective _either_.” Ms. O’Blake’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You know hardly anything about the wizarding world.”

“I know it’s dangerous.”

“Not to intrude on what is a private discussion, Ms. O’Blake, Doctor,” Leo finally sliced in, “but _life_ is dangerous, Doctor. Living always is.”

“You might sit down with that girl who had Rowan’s book before you make the argument that the Muggle world is safer, as well,” Zanetti brushed her hair off the shoulders of her cloak. “Miri could tell you a thing or two about the fragility of life in either world.”

“Why?” The O’Blakes said in curious unison before glaring at each other.

“Miri’s brother, Henry, he died in a—what do you call it? Suicide—suicide bomb, I think?” Duncan told them quietly.

“Oh.”

“That poor little girl,” Ms. O’Blake said softly.

“Isn’t that what the Muggles called what Peter Pettigrew framed Sirius Black for?” Longbottom asked curiously.

“I think it is.” Ms. O’Blake frowned.

“How many more stairs?” asked Hagrid, who was bringing up the rear of the group, barely fitting in the narrow stairwell.

“We’re almost at the top.” Duncan reassured him, smiling over his shoulder. “I can see the antechamber door from here.”

“Thank Merlin. I’m starting to get claustrophobic and I can’t imagine how poor Hagrid’s holding up,” Zanetti said sympathetically.

“I’ll get by,” Hagrid said. They turned one more set of stairs, which indeed brought them in sight of a door.

“Ben? Vivianne? It’s me! And them. And us, I guess,” Duncan called.

“Who is us?” Vivianne’s voice called back.

“Professor Lipskit, Professor Zanetti, Professor Longbottom, Professor Hagrid, and—uh—Rowan’s parents.”

“P-p-parents?” Rowan asked in a wavering voice. “B-both of them?”

“Both of us, baby,” Ms. O’Blake told her, practically trampling poor Duncan as she sped up; he sidestepped to the edge of the platform to get out of her way. The footfalls paused for just a moment. “Right, Langley.” Then they heard a door open as Duncan gestured them through. As Duncan had told them, a still-jinxed Langley was propped against one of the walls like a board. His brows, about the only part of him that could move, drew together in a glare. Leo ignored him and followed the stream of people heading into the inner chamber.

“Oh, oh, sweet. Are you all right?”

“I’m d-d-doing b-better n-n-now,” Rowan told her mother, when Ms. O’Blake released her enough to speak.

“Let her breathe, Elaine,” Dr. O’Blake told his ex-wife.

“You just want me to let her go so you can smother her yourself. I got here first,” Ms. O’Blake retorted.

“Isn’t it so heart-warmin’ to see families t’gether at th’ holidays?” Moore was smirking. Of course he was. If anyone could go through all of this with black humor intact and an enduring sardonic smirk, it’d be Moore. He was – at the heart of it – a survivor.

“You’d be—Ben, then?” Ms. O’Blake asked, passing her daughter into her ex-husband’s arms.

“Guilty,” he drawled.

“And Vivianne?”

Moore jerked his chin at a large window past a table, where Vivianne leaned against the windowsill and stared out into the snowy night.

“Are you all right?” Ms. O’Blake demanded of her niece.

“He killed Grandmother,” Vivianne said, her voice cracked and crazed.

“Zach told us.” Ms. O’Blake’s voice was coaxing.

“He didn’t even _care_.” Vivianne’s voice broke entirely on the last word. “She—she—”

“I know, sweet.” Ms. O’Blake held her arms open just slightly as Vivianne turned from the window. “But he won’t hurt anyone—not ever again. I can’t bring her back, but I can promise that.”

Vivianne, in a move that surprised everyone – maybe Vivianne most of all – fell into Ms. O’Blake’s arms, burrowing her face in the furry lining on Ms. O’Blake’s cloak hood, right next to Ms. O’Blake’s neck. Her whole body jerked with sobs from somewhere deep inside.

“Good,” Vivianne choked out. “Good.”

* * *

_Are you all right? What happened? Did he hurt you?_

There were a thousand questions on the tip of Robert’s tongue. Zach might have given them the bare outlines of what had happened – but that wasn’t enough. Not by a long shot.

The problem was that he could tell that Rowan wasn’t in any state to answer them.

Maybe the other adults in the room couldn’t see it – at least, the adults who weren’t Elaine, who had her hands literally full with a sobbing niece (and no wonder, if the poor girl had to face down with the man who murdered her grandmother) – but Robert could. There was something in Rowan’s expression that reminded him of when she was a toddler and had missed a nap or had too stimulating a day. She might _look_ fine, but one dropped toy or one melty ice cream cone or one pinch on the cheek too many would be all it took to send her over the edge.

She was trying to stay on the edge, and Robert could see that. He wasn’t going to be the one who pushed her over.

So he didn’t say anything, but once he’d hugged her enough to be sure she was solid and real and not about to vanish on him, he put an arm around her shoulder and rubbed her arm.

And he spoke up. “I think we should get back to the school,” he said. “Zach should probably have his side looked at …”

He glanced down at Rowan. Rowan glanced back up at him. Her eyes were red, like she’d been crying.

And no wonder.

“And I want someone to have a look at Rowan,” he said. There. He’d said it, and he was sorry if it embarrassed her in front of her friends, but it needed to be said.

“I’m okay, D-D-Dad, I d-d-didn’t g-g-get h-hit—” Rowan started, and stopped. She put a hand on her head.

The hand was shaking.

“Rowan?” Robert asked.

“He f-f-f-fed me s-s-s-something—” Rowan started. She was looking very pale now. “M-m-made me—d-d-drink …”

“Made you drink what?” asked one of the professors – Zanetti, coming closer to Rowan.

Rowan pointed. “I s-s-spilled it—over th-th-there—but I d-d-drank some f-f-first—”

“I see—” Elaine started. She stopped. Her eyes widened.

“Vivianne?” she said, very quietly. “I need to let go of you now. Ok? I need to check something.”

“W-what?” Vivianne asked – but she did let go, looking small and alone and a bit bereft until Zach, of all people, put his arm around her.

Robert was not going to ask.

Elaine went closer to the puddle Rowan had pointed to. Now that Robert was looking at it, he could see it was oddly shiny, iridescent, even. The only liquid he knew that looked even a little like that was motor oil—his hold on Rowan tightened reflexively—

Elaine crouched and looked at the puddle. She took her wand out – but stopped. Robert could see her sniffing, and carefully, she wafted a bit more of the scent up to her nose.

Robert saw Elaine’s eyes widen before absolutely all expression left her face.

“Rowan,” she said, in a manner that was far too calm for the situation, “Zach indicated that you were—wearing something when everyone came in. Where is it?”

Rowan swallowed, but pointed again, to a pile of black lacy cloth that—that couldn’t have been what she was wearing. It was far too small to be—to be—

“Rowan—” Robert started.

The purposeful thud of Elaine’s boots cut the question off. Elaine didn’t move the cloth, but she did rub it between her fingers.

Robert heard the snarl when she dropped it.

“Professor Lipskit,” she said, standing up, “I’m not sure how much you’re going to like this—but I need to call this in. This—this is a crime scene. Aside from the kidnapping and the—apparent murder confession—we have—”

“All of that is well outside of Hogwarts’s jurisdiction, Ms. O’Blake,” Professor Lipskit interrupted. “Rove might not like it, but I say call in whatever you need to call in.”

Elaine nodded and took a deep breath. “Good. Good.”

“Elaine,” interrupted Neville – who seemed to be the only professor who was all right with being addressed by his first name – well, other than Hagrid, who seemed to only have one name that anyone had mentioned – “Elaine, you can’t put these kids through a full debriefing right now!”

“The kids?” Elaine blinked and looked around. “No—no, it’s not—wait. The kids all need medical attention. Pronto. Medical attention comes before questioning. That’s protocol.”

Vivianne straightened up. “I’m fine—Aunt Elaine.”

“No, you’re not; you need medical attention,” Elaine repeated.

Vivianne opened her mouth to protest when she was cut off by a seemingly unlikely source. Ben – whose accent became no clearer on a second hearing – shook his head and spoke. “Guys, I get it, I get it – you’re Brits, stiff upper lip and all that crap. I’m Texan; we’re much the same way, only in you it’s the stern stuff of an empire that never slept—an’ with the way the world views Texas, with us, it’s viewed as just one more way we’re out to lunch upstairs.” He quirked an eyebrow up.

“But I’m the most okay of all of us, an’ I ain’t okay.” Ben’s gaze traveled from Vivianne, to Zach, to Rowan, where it stopped for just a moment and bloomed into a smile that Robert wasn’t sure _how_ he felt about. “We’re goin’ to end up in the infirmary one way or another, so why don’t we, dunno, give up gracefully and take the fixed spell damage, cocoa and fudge while we’re packed in bed answerin’ questions—and the nice sleepin’ draught you know Madam Pomfrey is gonna give us when it’s all done. Otherwise, stoicism demands that I either pack it in or make up some crap about, I dunno, breakin’ a toe or something.”

Robert – and all the other adults in the room – looked down at the boy’s feet, encased in a pair of well-worn cowboy boots that looked like they would protect Ben’s feet from virtually anything that _could_ break a toe, and possibly from the apocalypse as well.

“And I kinda have this personal anti-lying policy goin’ on. Not sure I should be breakin’ that just to get the worked-over three of you to the infirmary,” Ben finished with a shrug.

“Wise words, Moore,” Professor Lipskit deadpanned. “Ms. O’Blake, I think you can call in – whatever you’re going to call in.”

Elaine nodded, took out her wand – Robert took a step back and brought Rowan with him – and waved it. “ _Expecto Patronum_!”

A flash of silvery light exploded from Elaine’s wand, followed by a fox – silver, glowing, and almost ghostly, but friendly for all that – that seemed to climb headfirst out of the wand. It landed at Elaine’s feet and curled its tail around its legs, looking at Elaine expectantly.

“Need you to take a message to Harry,” Elaine said. “Code Dobby. Break in the Gorlois case at the ruins outside of Hogwarts. Also, interrupted kidnapping and—assorted other crimes. The victims are currently receiving medical treatment in the Hogwarts hospital wing. Assailants are disarmed and in a body-bind. Need an evidence processing unit and prisoner containment unit.

“Got that?” Elaine asked the little fox.

The fox nodded, then in a beautiful fluid motion, sprung outside the window and off into the starry night.

Elaine took a deep breath and cast a look at Rowan that could only be called beseeching.

“Nev an’ me’ll stay here an’ watch the troublemakers, Elaine,” Hagrid said, hefting his crossbow in a way that Robert could not help but find threatening. “Yeh go with yer kid. Right, Nev?”

“Harry’s not exactly in a position to judge,” Neville replied, nodding.

Elaine snorted, but she didn’t argue. “Thanks,” she said.

“Back to the school?” Professor Lipskit asked.

Elaine looked around, at the kids, at the table with the sword and armor, at the puddle on the floor. “Back to the school.”

* * *

Leo stumped along, hating the way cold and damp did things to his leg, but keeping the pace at any rate as they made their way back to the school. Ms. O’Blake had once again taken charge of Vivianne, though that was probably equal measures because the younger Gorlois was in nearly as bad of shape as Rowan – and because Dr. O’Blake had taken charge of Rowan and there was no way that anyone was displacing him, her mother or not. Duncan, however, was on Vivianne’s other side, holding her hand.

Moore was not holding Rowan’s hand, keeping a respectable distance from her even. But he was giving her a running narrative of half-intelligible references and jokes, even having her laughing within moments of the last of the snow from the ruins being knocked from their boots.

Dr. O’Blake looked somewhat disgruntled, but Ben, irrepressible as ever, seemed unconcerned.

When Hogwarts finally came into view, a wave of relief swept over the entire battered group. Its many windows seemed to glow with a warm light. Leo pushed the doors open and held them, allowing everyone to file in before he firmly closed the doors behind them.

“Zach!” He wasn’t surprised to hear Ms. Duncan’s voice or to see her waiting in the entry with a woman who had to be her sister. Nor was he particularly surprised to see Jon McIntosh stop mid-pace and fling himself at Rowan and Duncan both. Yaxley actually tossed her fashion magazine that she had been making a great show of reading to the side and staggered to her feet.

“Josie will be here soon.” Yaxley fussed with Vivianne’s hair and cloak, glaring sidelong at Ms. O’Blake, whose only response was to roll her eyes. Vivianne simply nodded wearily and leaned her head on her aunt’s shoulder.

The hall held a couple of others, besides the assorted instructors. Mrs. Corbie stood with her son and Professor McGonagall near the stairwell. And in the midst of all of the touching reunions, Ben simply nodded once, formally, to his grandmother, and she nodded in return, smoothly picking up the thread of whatever-it-was that she and Chauncey were talking about.

Even Dr. O’Blake, who had done all but buy a sign to indicate his uncertainty about the big Gryffindor, seemed visibly shocked.

It was Chauncey Corbie who finally spoke to Ben. “We contacted your aunt, Benjamin; she said she’d be on the first flight she could take out. I—don’t know how long that will take her.”

“She’ll get here when she gets here.” Ben shrugged with a resigned sort of smile.

“Ben?” Miri had broken away from Professor Kilduff. “I kept Chance safe. You were right; it wasn’t make-work. We helped.”

Ben offered her a much more sincere smile than the one he had offered his uncle.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” Ben told her, taking the kitten back from her hands and using his free hand to ruffle Miri’s hair.

“So what happened?”

“What happened can wait until the kids have been looked over; they’ve been through hell, Rosie,” Leo interrupted before anyone could say anything. “You can fight over the capacity limit on the infirmary with Poppy, but the first thing that’s happening is these kids are going there. Minerva, I’m afraid the ruins have been declared a crime scene and Ms. O’Blake insisted that the Aurors be given full access.”

“I’d have expected as much,” the stern former Headmistress told him.

“We’ll also probably have an appearance by Potter—which can also happen in the infirmary, I think. She said it’s protocol.”

“Well, Harry was only passably ever good at following protocol, as it _is_ a kissing-cousin to the rules, but I think that makes a great deal of sense.” McGonagall smiled.

“Is there anything we should know?” Leo asked after returning her smile.

“Nothing that can’t wait.” She nodded her head in the direction of the infirmary.

“Someone should probably go pry Rove out of his office,” Leo said after a moment.

“I thought you were interested in getting things done, Professor Lipskit,” the cool, smooth, damned near emotionless voice of C. Madeline Corbie cut in. “I would say prying Rove out of his office would be counter-productive to _that_. I’m certain that Professor Flitwick can deal with the minutia of whatever happened out there.”

Leo shrugged and nodded. The kids were safe, the Aurors called, the parents gathered. That was good enough for Leo; anything further could wait until after they’d all been seen to.

Pomfrey was waiting for them in the infirmary, dividing groups into cordoned off areas: Duncan, his mother, best friend, and aunt into one; Vivianne, her aunt, and Yaxley into a second; Rowan and her father into the third. Ben—and his cat—went into the last; his grandmother hadn’t even come with them up to the infirmary. Leo wished he could have been surprised.

Leo and the other heads of house, bar Yaxley, sat with Zanetti to wait, perched like a bunch of vultures on the beds that weren’t curtained off. Various supplies flew over the curtains as Pomfrey tended the kids, and muffled conversation came from three of the four groups. Of course, it just being Ben and his cat in the fourth, that one was simply silent.

“Well, they’ll live,” Pomfrey finally announced after she came out of Ben’s area. “For the most part, Ben and Vivianne have probably gotten into worse scrapes in the hallway. Vivianne’s a little shocky—but she’s already rallying, though that might be because of—other things.” Pomfrey was too polite say it was Yaxley’s presence, but it was implied. “Still, she’s a Gorlois.” The professors all nodded.

“Zach—other than that somewhat nasty burn—is fine. I’ll need to keep an eye on Rowan, but I have certainly seen her in worse straits. Elaine mentioned something about Harry wanting to talk to the kids; I imagine that will be fine.” The matron brushed her hands off, nodded at them, and disappeared off into the infirmary’s back room.

It wasn’t five minutes after that the smell of biscuits and cocoa filled the infirmary and the curtains pushed themselves back to reveal each of the students tucked into their beds.

Leo couldn’t help but notice the way Moore’s eyes were locked on his cat and not on the other kids with their families. Flitwick noticed it too; he hopped off his perch and immediately went to Ben’s bedside.

“I take it you’ll be back to pranking us all in no time?” he asked, hopping onto a stool by the big Gryffindor.

“I imagine so. Can’t really complain,” Moore told him, though there was something in his face.

“I imagine you could. You won’t, but you could,” Flitwick countered.

“It doesn’t change anything, professor.” Moore’s eyes flickered skyward.

“No, no – I don’t imagine it does.”

* * *

Vivianne hadn’t touched a biscuit, though she was sipping her cocoa. Elaine had already eaten three. Rosie hadn’t touched a biscuit or cocoa, but of course she wouldn’t, and Elaine was hard-pressed to care much.

Her eyes kept flickering between Vivianne and Rowan. Vivianne – because the girl needed _someone_ , and Rosie didn’t count. Elaine remembered what it was like growing up Gorlois, and she had always had her dad to lean on – and even her mother knew how to be there when Elaine really needed her. Vivianne didn’t have that.

And Rowan, because, well … lots of reasons. The fact that she’d been missing for two days. The Amortentia spilled on the floor. The underwear Elaine had found, made of pure siren silk.

Elaine ran a hand through her hair. Siren silk. Made from the silk spun by black siren spiders, it wasn’t illegal, and maybe it shouldn’t be. It had started out being used in baby clothes – it kept the babies calm and compliant – at least until the Healers caught wind of that and let everyone know what a colossally stupid idea that was. But you could find blends of it in lots of places. High-strung people liked to wear them as blouses, scarves, that kind of thing. Sometimes it was put into wedding robes and other evening dress. Hell, they even used a blend of it for the prisoner uniforms at Azkaban, though a fat lot of good it did.

Blends kept people calm, mellow. They weren’t that different than some of potions and pills Muggles used for anxiety. But a whole garment made of the pure stuff – and worn directly against the skin—

Elaine didn’t shudder, but only because Vivianne and Rosie were sitting right there.

It wasn’t as strong as the Imperius Curse. But it would make even an adult have a hard time doing more than going with the flow. And Rowan was small …

_But there was no sign of sexual assault,_ Elaine told herself, because she had to keep telling herself that. _You asked Madam Pomfrey to check. And she said there wasn’t._

Once again, Elaine thanked her lucky stars she was a witch and not a Muggle. She’d learned a bit about Muggle police work in the course of her time as an Auror – a lot more over the course of the last decade – and she’d heard about “rape kits.” Elaine supposed they beat the alternative. But Healers had a better way. A couple quick spells – usually done during a battery of other spells – and you had your evidence. If there was any.

In this case, there wasn’t.

Madam Pomfrey had told Elaine she’d administer a contraceptive just in case.

Elaine would have to tell Robert about this later. And she’d have to have a long talk with Rowan – someplace where the conversation wouldn’t be overheard by Rowan’s boyfriend and both of her best friends and her cousin and half the teachers in the bloody school.

Speaking of Rowan’s best friend – or at least one of them – Jon had made his way over to Rowan’s bedside. Elaine watched carefully. Rowan had smiled when he walked up, and was giggling faintly at something he was saying.

Her eyes kept flickering away, though. Mostly to Ben, though occasionally to other people.

But Rowan wasn’t the only person looking to Ben. Vivianne did, too, sometimes. Although … not quite at _him_ —

“Professor?” Vivianne asked. Her voice sounded small, and she held the mug of cocoa tightly.

“Yes, Vivi dear?” Rosie asked, almost preening at being addressed before Elaine.

“Could—could you go down to the common room and get Canyon for me?” Vivianne pursed her lips together. “I—I miss him …”

“Oh … oh, Vivianne,” Rosie said, “I—I’m not sure Madam Pomfrey would allow it …”

“She hasn’t said anything about Chance.” When Rosie blinked, Vivianne clarified, “Ben’s cat.”

Rosie looked over her shoulder. She scowled, and had the situation been any less fraught, Elaine might have pointed out that was exactly the kind of scowl that caused wrinkles. But she rolled her shoulders back, stuck her nose high enough in the air that she’d be in danger of drowning in a passing sprinkle, and patted Vivianne’s knee. “If Moore can have his cat, I don’t see any reason why you can’t have yours. I’ll go get him right now.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Vivianne said with a small smile.

She watched Rosie as she got up and made her self-important way out of the room, her expression – as far as Elaine could tell – small and young and more than a little lost.

It stayed like that for thirty seconds after Rosie left.

Then Vivianne turned to Elaine, and Elaine almost jumped. It was like looking at one of those old – very old – pictures of her mother. “Good—we’re rid of her. Canyon always hides when she shows up. Aunt—Aunt Elaine, we can’t let the Ministry have the sword and armor.”

Elaine’s jaw dropped.

_… Bloody Gorloises._

“Vivianne …” Elaine started.

“You—you still have Gorlois blood in you,” Vivianne said. “Surely you understand. Morgan and Arthur protected it for a reason. And—and we can’t just let the _government_ have it. What if—what if another Dark Lord came along?”

That wasn’t what Vivianne was worried about – really worried about – though Elaine would give her points for trying. “Vivianne,” Elaine repeated. “Don’t worry about the sword and armor.”

Vivianne’s eyes flashed, and Elaine knew she’d said the wrong thing.

But that was all right. Occasionally Gorloises needed to hear the wrong thing. “First of all—Ben said before we left that it’s protected. Blood lock and love lock. If the Ministry wants to move it, they’re going to need the Gorloises’ cooperation.”

“Or someone with the blood,” Vivianne said, and it was plain just how much that possibility was worrying her.

“Uh-huh. Tell me, Vivianne, how many people do you think will be lining up to test that theory?” Elaine raised an eyebrow. “Let me tell you, I work with a lot of people who can do a lot of brave things – but I don’t think anyone in our department will be signing up for that. And that includes me.”

Vivianne’s jaw fell.

“It’s a sword and armor,” Elaine went on. “In Morgan’s time? They were potent weapons. More so with—whatever she or Arthur or the goblins or whoever did to them. Now? Even Muggles don’t have use for swords and armor, except in movies and museums.”

Vivianne blinked slowly.

“And another thing: by any reasonable right of inheritance, that’s Gorlois property. If the Ministry wants them, you know Aunt Dindrane will make them bleed ink before they get them.”

That almost made Vivianne smile.

“And one last thing: let’s say that the Ministry wants the armor and the sword, and they manage to ram it through the courts to get them – then what? What are they going to do with them?”

Vivianne’s mouth opened.

“Let me tell you something,” Elaine went on. “I doubt you’d know this, but Kingsley – Minister Shacklebolt – is, in some ways, a terribly responsible person. Presented with a priceless artifact like this, you know what his first instinct would be?”

“… No,” Vivianne finally admitted.

“Put it in a museum,” Elaine replied. “Which, I’m sure you can imagine why that would be a disaster – especially if the blood lock and love lock are still on it.”

Vivianne shuddered.

“Exactly. So what he’d have to do—it would be like the ending of …” Elaine snapped her fingers, “what was that movie … Robert?”

Robert looked up.

“Which movie was it—the one with Han Solo—it starts with him being chased by a boulder—and it ends with the Ark of the Covenant in a big warehouse—”

“ _Indiana Jones an’ the Raiders of the Lost Ark_ ,” answered Ben, “ma’am.”

“And it’s H-Harrison F-Ford, Mum,” Rowan added, “n-n-not Han Solo. Han S-Solo was the character he p-p-played in _S-Star W-Wars_.”

Vivianne just looked bewildered – as did more than a few of the adults in the room.

“Right!” Elaine nodded. “And you,” she tapped Vivianne, “the next time you have a school break, go visit your cousin, and she’ll show you all these movies. Anyway! _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ ends with the American government storing the Ark of the Covenant away in a nailed-shut crate in a warehouse.”

“… Why?” asked Vivianne.

Elaine couldn’t remember that – just the iconic final scene – but luckily Ben came to the rescue once again. “‘Cause they’re the government an’ they can,” Ben replied. “An’ the bunch of Nazis the thing killed when it was opened might’ve had somethin’ to do with it. Might’ve.”

“Nazis?” Vivianne asked, sounding more bewildered by the second.

“M-M-Muggle D-Death Eaters,” Rowan filled in, “b-b-but w-w-worse. They k-k-killed—a _lot_ m-m-more people.”

“Anyway,” Elaine went on, lowering her voice, “what I was saying was—the movie ends with this priceless artifact being locked away in a warehouse with thousands of other priceless artifacts. That’s what Kingsley would have to do with them, Vivianne. Lock them away. There’s no real use for them – they’re too dangerous to have on display – and he can’t risk them falling into the wrong hands.”

“Like Bellerose’s,” Vivianne said, and there was more than a bit of a snarl. “But none of that is a reason to leave the sword and armor where they are, Aunt Elaine. Bellerose found out about them somehow. And too many people know about them already!”

… The kid had a point.

Elaine nodded slowly. “You’re right. Yes. So—we’ll figure something out, Vivianne. But for now—”

Elaine never got a chance to finish.

The infirmary door opened, and all of them looked up automatically.

The man who walked in was tall and lean, with a somewhat harried expression. His black hair was messy – messier than usual – and sticking up in the back. He looked tired, although that might have as much to do with having three small children, including one teething baby, at home as anything that happened tonight or recently at work.

His eyes – bright green, almond-shaped, and not at all hidden by his round spectacles – fell on Elaine.

The room fell completely silent until he spoke – well, sighed. “All right, Elaine,” he asked, “what happened here?”

And Elaine just smiled. “Nice to see you too, Harry.”


	52. Chapter 51: I'm Dreaming Tonight

**Chapter 51: I’m Dreaming Tonight**

Zach had met Harry a few times before; he always seemed so down to earth compared with his reputation. He was just a friend of his friend’s mother, a man who liked popcorn, jokes, and relaxing with his friends. Still, there was _something_ about him, standing in the doorway to Hogwarts’ infirmary, that was … different than the Harry Zach was familiar with.

The Auror scanned the infirmary, then strode purposefully toward the stool that Professor Flitwick had been perched on. Flitwick was busy shooing the professors out of the infirmary.

“You remember Zach, I’m sure,” Elaine told him. “And this is my niece, Vivianne Gorlois.” Harry’s eyebrow shot upward. “And yes, she is the new Gorlois Matriarch. And the young man next to you is—”

“Ben, right?” Harry interrupted. “Ben Moore? Hagrid’s mentioned you boys. Every time we get together for a pint, it’s been all about what you and your friends have been doing to keep the school on its toes. I especially liked the gingerbread cottage.” Harry offered Ben a wide smile. “My friend George really does want to meet you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ben smiled. “Maybe he will. I might be takin’ him up on that employment offer after Professor Rove hears about what went down t’night.”

“Oh, I’ve found that if it saved a student, Hogwarts is usually pretty forgiving.” Harry’s grin grew.

“You’re a special case, Mr. Potter,” Ben told him.

“… I suppose I am.” Harry nodded. “So, what did go down tonight?”

Ben looked over to where Zach laid in his bed, then back at his cat, quickly. Harry reached out a hand and patted Ben on the shoulder even as Zach started to explain – first Saturday morning, then talking to Jon that day.

Rowan admitted that when Jon and the rest of her friends were so late, she had started down the hill by herself, then to blankness as she was captured. Jon and Zach shared a guilty look.

* * *

Two days. She’d lost two whole _days_. All Rowan remembered was walking down the hill to Hagrid’s cottage, then waking up in the ruins in that god-awful underwear and with Mr. Bellerose leering at her. Nothing in between.

Rowan took deep breaths and tried not to panic.

She especially tried not to panic as Ben and Zach and Vivianne told of everything they’d gone through to get to her. To get to _her_. Fighting off that tiger-thing that was apparently called a Clawspawn. Another fight with Mr. Langley, who had been—possessed? By a ghost? Rowan couldn’t even tell. And then yet another fight with Mr. Bellerose, during which she’d been practically no help because she couldn’t string two bloody thoughts together.

What was wrong with her?

Rowan swallowed it all down and just kept taking deep breaths.

At least Harry was being gentle. The questions he asked were direct and to the point. Sometimes he’d ask them to go over a point again, but that was the most he’d do.

He seemed really interested in the fight with Mr. Langley, for some reason. He kept frowning and making sure that the quill he’d bespelled to take notes was doing it properly. But whatever was going on, he probably wasn’t going to tell them about it.

Her mum looked awfully interested in that part, too, for some reason.

Rowan sighed and leaned on her father. “You all right?” he asked quietly. “We can stop if you’re not up for this.”

Rowan shook her head. “I’m g-g-good. I’d r-r-rather j-j-just get it over w-w-with.”

“If you say so, sweetheart,” Robert said, patting her hand.

Rowan didn’t say so, not again. She just looked across the infirmary at Ben, watching him play with Chance and watching Chance chase anything she could.

Right now, it was easier to do that than to try to think about much of anything.

* * *

Chance was busy pouncing Ben’s toes under the blanket, giving Ben something to focus on other than the narrative, which was just likely to piss him off, or the keen loneliness that was baying at the windows and doors like a wolf in the moonlight. It was really hard to keep from—feeling sorry for himself, really.

But he shouldn’t. His aunt would be here. _His_ emotional support wasn’t balanced on Professor Yaxley or her best friend, who didn’t seem to have much to recommend her. _He_ hadn’t spent the past few days captured and in the hands of a man who wanted to do bad things to him. _He_ hadn’t taken that electricity spell for Rowan or had the awful burn that it had left. While he’d been a bit battered by some of Bellerose’s spells, Vivianne had taken far more of the brunt of what both Bellerose and Langley had to offer.

So he was alone—for now. So he’d gotten only the same cold distant regard from his grandmother and uncle that he’d always gotten. He hardly had the worst of it.

Hell, even Mr. Potter probably had it worse than him right now. He was here, not at home with his kids, and it was only a couple of days before Christmas.

Still, when he looked at Dr. O’Blake, patting Rowan’s hand, or Ms. O’Blake snitching another cookie off Vivianne’s plate, or Ms. Duncan fussing with Zach’s hair, something seized up in his chest; that circling wolf sounded just a little closer.

They were nearly wrapping up the story – to the point where Rowan’s parents were interjecting as often as not – when the door to the infirmary burst open.

The woman at the door was obviously a Gorlois, tall, shapely, with the classic beauty that marked that family. She sported expensive robes that she was nearly popping out of on the top, and her glossy black hair was overdone in a spray of curls that reminded Ben of Professor Yaxley.

Her hands spread against her chest, touching the gem-strewn statement necklace with her fingertips, her dark manicure – it could have been black or navy or dark green – flashing in the light.

“Oh, Vivi, Vivi-darling!” she gasped, her long fingers shot to her perfect pink pout crossing over her lips. Ms. O’Blake moved from her place at Vivianne’s side over toward where Rowan lay with Dr. O’Blake and Jon flanking her.

Vivianne’s mother: a guess on Ben’s part, confirmed by the long-suffering sigh Vivianne gave a moment later. “Mother.”

“Oh, oh, Vivi-darling! You’re not hurt, are you? If that half-blood mongrel endangered you …” Vivianne could have said it as a threat. Out of Vivianne’s mother, it was about as scary as twitched whiskers on Chance.

“Rowan did _not_ endanger me, Mother. I _chose_ to go.” Vivianne rolled her eyes.

“ _Why? You know what she is!_ ”

“Ms. Gorlois,” Madam Pomfrey appeared before Vivianne could respond. “There are three other students here who are trying to recover. Do not make me remove you from the infirmary, and do not doubt that if necessary I will.”

Ms. Gorlois dove for Vivianne’s bed, smoothing her hair and generally sobbing and fussing, but she said nothing more about Rowan as she did so.

“Elaine, a moment?” Mr. Potter said, gesturing at the door to the infirmary. He had probably seen her fingering the length of spruce with an eye toward her sister.

“Harry, you can use my office to talk to Elaine if you need to,” Madam Pomfrey told the Auror.

“Thank you, Madam Pomfrey.” Mr. Potter looked over the students. “I think—if I have any further questions—they can be asked in the morning or in private at a later time. So, if they need a sleeping draught or a medicine that might make them drowsy, you can administer it.”

Madam Pomfrey nodded and quite obviously set about to pass out those draughts. Ben wouldn’t have thought he’d have needed it, but with Ms. Gorlois’s caterwauling, it might be nice to have it.

* * *

_Oh, Mother, for Merlin’s sake,_ Vivianne sighed.

The last time her mother had manhandled her like this … Vivianne couldn’t remember. Maybe it was just before she left for Hogwarts for the first time. Josie did tend to become … touchy-feely when she was worried.

“Mother, I’m fine,” Vivianne said finally, trying to extricate herself from her mother’s grip. “I am. Monsieur Bellerose isn’t as good of a shot as he thinks he is. I barely got hit with anything worth mentioning—and—”

Did her mother have any idea that Bellerose was the one who had killed Igraine? She’d walked in after that was mentioned. If she did know, she was being awfully and uncharacteristically quiet about it. If she _didn’t_ know …

Vivianne decided that knowledge could wait until morning. She’d earned a night off from having to deal with that.

“You still shouldn’t have gone!” Vivianne _thought_ Josie was going for scolding, but, well, scolding had never been her mother’s strong suit. “There was no reason to put yourself at risk! That’s what—what teachers, what _Aurors_ are for!”

“Gorloises take care of their own,” Vivianne said, perhaps a little sharply, but she supposed she might be excused a lack of patience.

“My dear, _she_ is not—”

“She is,” Vivianne snapped. Loudly enough that she caught both Rowan and her father start and look at her. “Grandmother thought so. And I think so too.”

Vivianne rolled her shoulders back, tilted her chin up, and raised an eyebrow in the way she knew her grandmother had liked to do.

“Well—well, I—” Josie began.

“Ms. Gorlois,” Madam Pomfrey began in a tone that brooked no argument, “I need to administer the sleeping draughts to the students. They have all had a long night and need their rest. Any further—discussions can wait until morning.”

“W-w-wait, M-Madam Pomfrey,” Rowan started.

Vivianne blinked—and she was sure she wasn’t the only one.

“I n-n-never got a ch-chance to s-say thank you,” she said. Her eyes flickered once around the infirmary, then dropped to her blanket. “S-s-s-so—thank y-y-you. F-f-for c-coming after m-m-me.”

“Rowan—” Zach started.

“What are friends for?” asked Ben.

Rowan looked up.

And she smiled.

It was clearly genuine—and it was a bigger smile than Vivianne had been expecting to see on her cousin’s face for quite some time. Of course it made Josie roll her eyes, but a glare from Vivianne kept her mother to the eye-roll.

Madam Pomfrey seemed to take that as her cue to bustle around with the sleeping draughts. Vivianne was one of the last to get hers, which she downed quickly – sleep would be a good thing.

“Good night, Mother,” she said, and pointedly burrowed under the blankets, closing her eyes.

But the sleeping draught didn’t take effect immediately. Before it hit, Vivianne was able to overhear one last snatch of conversation.

“Ms. Gorlois, I’ve offered beds here in the infirmary to the other parents. You’re welcome to take one,” Madam Pomfrey was saying.

“Er …” Vivianne could hear the frown even if she couldn’t see it. “ _All_ of them?”

“Yes, Ms. Gorlois. All of them.”

“… I think I’ll see if Rosie has some extra room in her quarters,” Josie said. “That would be allowed, wouldn’t it?”

There was a long pause that Vivianne was getting too sleepy to interpret. But the tone didn’t take much interpreting. “If … that’s what you want …”

_Thank Merlin,_ Vivianne thought.

And that was the last thing she did think before sleep crept up and claimed her.

* * *

At some point in the night, Chance had moved out of the hollow near Ben’s shoulder where she normally slept. He noticed the cold first of all; it sort of nudged him awake. Normally it was fine when she wasn’t there. None of the other boys particularly cared if Chance decided to take up residence on their beds—not that it happened often. But on occasion, she would. But they weren’t in the familiar tower room in Gryffindor Tower, and he had no idea if any of the other students – or their parents – would care if Chance curled up on their beds.

His eyes opened and focused; it was still dark outside and the infirmary was full of sleeping people, only a single candle flickering in the quiet. “Chance?” Ben whispered quietly.

“I’ve got her, Benster.” It was the voice he’d been waiting for since he walked into the castle last night and had seen C. Madeline standing there.

“Aunt Mary-Anne?” Ben’s voice cracked.

“Well, you’ve still got your wits about you.” Aunt Mary-Anne teased, brushing his hair and his cheek.

“When did you get here?” Ben whispered, not wanting to wake anyone else.

“Long enough to chat with Professor Lipskit and Madam Pomfrey and to settle in with Chance, is all.” Her farm-rough hands tucked the blanket a little tighter around his shoulders. “Go back to sleep, Benny. Des and Chester will be flying in sometime tonight—and you know how exhausting my family is.”

“Wait, they will? I wasn’t even that hurt.”

“You can argue it with _them_ —but Chester didn’t even bitch about the ticket costs,” his aunt told him. “But go back to sleep. If ever you earned an extra couple of hours of sleep, I think it’d be now.”

And because his aunt was a very wise woman, Ben did exactly that.

* * *

Like most Aurors, Elaine had spent her share of nights in the Hogwarts infirmary when she was in school. Somehow, though, it seemed less restful now than it did then. Maybe it was just getting older. Maybe it was a lack of Madam Pomfrey’s sleeping draughts.

Whatever it was, when Elaine woke up, it took longer than she was used to get her brain into working order. Check on Rowan first, check with Madam Pomfrey about Rowan next. Find Professor Flitwick and make it clear that Rowan was coming home with her and Robert as soon as Madam Pomfrey cleared her for release. (She doubted Professor Flitwick would argue, but she certainly wasn’t taking Rowan anywhere unless the teachers knew where she was going.) And somewhere in the middle of all that, take care of the normal morning routine: brush teeth, comb hair, wash face.

And breakfast. Breakfast would be nice.

And as it happened, breakfast was being served in the infirmary (thank Merlin, Elaine wasn’t dragging Rowan into the Great Hall if she could possibly help it – and she had a feeling what she had in the cottage wasn’t going to pass Robert’s muster) just as she got back from her quick word with Professor Flitwick.

The curtains around the infirmary beds had opened once again, giving Elaine a chance to scope out the plates sidelong. Zach had gone for the full Scottish breakfast: porridge, toast, bacon and sausage, tomato, black pudding and more. Jon was right next to Zach and eating largely the same thing. Vivianne’s plate was decidedly Continental in flavor, heavy (if you could call it that) on toast and sweet cakes and jam – plus possibly a bit of yogurt and muesli – but really quite light. Rowan (whose plate Elaine paid the most attention to) had her typical breakfast: fruit and yoghurt, a couple of poached eggs, tomato and toast. She seemed to be making decent progress on it, which was a relief.

And then there was Ben, with his plate piled high with waffles, scrambled eggs with sausage, bacon, ham, toast, orange juice, and even some sweet rolls – none of which was surprising to Elaine, given the size of the kid. (She really hoped that seeing that barreling down on him would give that bastard Bellerose nightmares – that and whatever spells Vivianne had cast on him that she probably wouldn’t be telling the adults about.) But none of that was what drew Elaine’s eye.

No, that was the tall woman sitting next to Ben, with Ben’s cat on her lap, laughing about something, and making Ben smile more than he had been last night.

Elaine would not have been an Auror if the sight of another, unrecognized adult in the infirmary didn’t give her pause, if only for a moment. This woman was quite sharp, because she seemed to notice it. “Hi,” she said in a thick, syrupy drawl that sounded very close to Ben’s way of speaking. “I think you must’ve missed the round of introductions – I’m Mary-Anne Kain. Benny’s aunt.”

_Benny?_ Elaine glanced sidelong at Ben, wondering how the kid was taking it. Ben didn’t seem fazed by the nickname, which either made him exceptionally mature, exceptionally happy to be delivered from the clutches of C. Madeline Corbie, or exceptionally good at hiding his feelings.

Possibly all three.

“Elaine O’Blake,” Elaine replied, walking across the room to shake Mary-Anne’s hand. “Rowan’s mum. Sorry about that—I had to sort a couple of things out with Professor Flitwick.”

“Professor Flitwick,” Mary-Anne repeated, thoughtfully. “He’s the Charms professor, right?”

“An’ the head of Ravenclaw,” Ben added. “Rowan’s house.”

“Ah, yes, right, right. The smart ones,” Mary-Anne nodded. “So what does that make you Gryffindors, again?” she teased Ben.

Vivianne snorted the snort of a teenager who had thought up at least five insults that she was too polite to say out loud, but at the same wanted you to be well aware of that fact.

“The b-b-brave ones,” Rowan said—and blushed. Robert looked somewhat alarmed, especially when Ben grinned at Rowan and Rowan flushed even further.

Elaine somehow refrained from rolling her eyes at her ex-husband – possibly by coming up with a quip. “The _best_ ones,” she corrected with a wink at Ben. “And nothing from you, Vivianne. I know exactly what you’re thinking, if only because it’s just what I would have been thinking if someone had had the guts to say that about Slytherin in front of me.” After a second’s pause, she added, “And no offense to Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, either.”

“None taken,” said Zach, because he was a good person.

* * *

Keeping one eye on Ben’s plate and the other flickering between the others in the infirmary, Mary-Anne relaxed just slightly. She knew that some people had questioned, given the vast age difference between her brother and her sister-in-law, that Ben was actually Aiden’s kid. Like a man just could not fall in love with a woman who had been a teenager when he was born? History was chock full of women marrying men old enough to be their fathers. But even in the twenty-first century, there was no title Mary-Anne had heard of equal to cougar for men.

Still, some things bred true.

Because what Ben had done? That was Mary-Anne’s dorky kid brother all over again. All he needed was a copper mop – well, and about forty pounds less muscle and a Louisiana dialect, and a taste for Muggle band shirts.

Okay, okay, so the Corbie was strong in her Ben-Monster’s looks, but the Moore was in there too.

She snitched a piece of bacon off Ben’s plate.

Apparently the O’Blakes were setting up for round two of an argument started already, because it didn’t take two minutes after Mary-Anne and Elaine had finished their exploratory small talk before she was over talking with Robert and Rowan. And Robert had a pinched stubborn look about his face like he was going to be digging in and resistant to all suggestions that didn’t run parallel to what he wanted.

“Rowan should be home for the holiday,” he said, loud enough for the rest of the infirmary’s occupants to hear him. “After all this, she should be sleeping in her own bed, surrounded by the things that make her comfortable. They even said something about that in some of Rowan’s classes at the Red Cross.”

“Wait,” Vivianne interjected. “They have _classes_ on this?”

“N-not—n-not exactly.” Rowan used her spoon to dunk a piece of apple into her yogurt, then proceeded to completely cover it. “They d-do, um, c-c-classes about t-trauma. How a healer—or EMT—can help s-s-someone who has been—t-t-traumatized.” Rowan poked at her submerged apple. As her mother rubbed across her shoulders, Rowan smiled up at Elaine and then took a bite of her yogurt, chewing gamely on the apple.

“And the cottage isn’t home—the bed there—is what—let out on long weekends?” Elaine frowned at Robert, who sighed and looked heaven-ward.

“I’m not saying that, Elaine. Just—maybe she should give—magic a rest. It’s what got her into this situation.” Robert broke the yoke on his own poached egg, balanced on an open-faced sandwich with greens and grilled tomato. What was with these Brits and tomatoes for breakfast? _Bleh._ She liked a tomato as much as anyone, but three out of the five of the kids – and all of the adults, sans Mary-Anne, who’d taken a slice of coffee cake and a huge cafe au late to use the sugar and caffeine in place of sleep – had one on their plates. Not for breakfast.

Well, and what she snagged from Ben’s plate. But she always did that, especially when he was nervous and uncomfortable, an easy, wordless way to be reassuring that all was normal.

“By that logic, you can’t forget that magic got her _out_ of it too. I wasn’t up there throwing punches at Bellerose, after all. Even Ben wasn’t.” Vivianne curled her long legs to one side and took a dainty sip of her tea before tearing off a bite of bread and spreading it, carefully, with ruby-red jam, though it was difficult – at least for Mary-Anne where she was – to tell what flavor it was. She neatly downed the bit with relish.

“I’m not denying that—but …” Robert trailed off, munching a bite of greens with a stubborn look on his face.

“You know, it was Muggles being asses about magic that lead to Rowan being the one taken, Uncle Robert,” Vivianne said with a hint of a smirk about her, though if that was tweaking his nose about being her uncle or if it was about what she was saying, Mary-Anne couldn’t tell.

“I’m fairly certain, Vivianne, that this was a case of a greedy _wizard_ wanting to get his hands on a _wizarding_ artifact, that has nothing to do with—normal people,” Robert said, adjusting his glasses by the corner of the frames rather than just pushing them up his nose like most people did.

“No, no. I’m not claiming that Bellerose’s motivation was not fully wizarding—or that his goal wasn’t also wizarding. But Rowan would be a _Gorlois_ —and thus under clan protection—if it weren’t for _Muggles_ believing in the maliciousness of _magic,_ ” Vivianne told him; the air that she spoke with reminded Mary-Anne of Desi when she was very certain of a fact and was lording it over Chester.

Elaine frowned at her niece, eyebrow arched expressively.

“You remember why the Lincolnshire Compact was formed, Aunt Elaine.” There was no question in her tone; she said it with matter-of-factness that told everyone in the room that there was no doubt that Elaine would know about this compact. “You were cast out of the clan for it—and Grandmother died so she couldn’t bring you— _and your daughter_ —back in.”

“Are you certain about that?” asked Zach, who had hitherto been quiet, talking with his mother, aunt, or best friend only a little, but that seemed more normal than out of character, if Mary-Anne was any judge.

“Yes. I am.” Vivianne’s eyes met with Zach’s, and he returned with a smile so sweet it almost did more than all the sugar in her coffee cake.

“But as you, Uncle Robert, don’t know about it—though I don’t suppose I _have to_ explain—I’ll sum it up. A Gorlois woman married a Muggle man, who, ultimately, foolishly ended up having her killed for being a witch. Since then, only one Gorlois woman has decided that a Muggle was worth the loss of clan status—that would be Aunt Elaine and you.”

“I gathered.” Robert’s lips were puckered and seemed almost pained as he acknowledged it.

“Rowan has the bloodline—but not the protections. Thus she was … open to Bellerose’s … manipulations.” Vivianne took another drink of tea. “But without the Muggle fear of magic, there would have been no Compact, and thus Rowan would be a Gorlois woman in _name_ as well.”

Elaine shot Vivianne another hard look but apparently couldn’t read anything into her niece’s expression, for she turned back to her baked beans with a puzzled frown.

Robert turned a look on Elaine. “She’s—sixteen like the rest of them?”

“I’m actually seventeen, now, Robert,” Zach interjected.

“That’s not the guile of a teenager.” Robert gestured at his niece.

“No, that’s the guile of a Gorlois woman raised from birth to be the matriarch; I imagine my mother would have been the same at Vivianne’s age. It breeds true, like the eyes. Always.” Elaine shook her head, but smiled before munching on some bacon.

“This doesn’t change whether Rowan should come home or not.” Robert returned before taking a bite of his sandwich, a little yellow yolk leaking out of it and landing square on his light blue dress shirt.

“Oh! Ruddy heck!” Robert obviously hadn’t started to exclaim that – and changing it mid-word robbed the invective of its power.

“Here, D-D-Dad.” Rowan took her wand off her tray and gestured at him with it. The egg splatter lifted and dissipated as if it’d never happened. Robert looked at his shirt and then his daughter.

“Thank you,” he said finally before turning back this his breakfast. Rowan ran her fingers over her wand after it was set back on the tray, tracing an obviously familiar bit of carving.

“No p-p-problem,” Rowan drank from her cocoa before chasing her pomegranate arils around in her yogurt.

“Just because you can take a stain out of my favorite shirt doesn’t change my argument, you know.” Robert picked the thread back up a few bites of food later.

“Is that y-your f-favorite shirt? I thought it w-w-was the D-Doctor Who one,” Rowan asked curiously.

“You gave me this shirt—any shirt you gave me is my favorite, you know that.” Robert said it disingenuously enough that it didn’t sound staged.

“D-D-Dad.” Rowan blushed.

“I would just feel so much better if you came home,” Robert told his daughter. Rowan turned to Elaine, a slightly panicky look on her face. Elaine glared at Robert.

“Would you take some advice? I mean even if this is a private conversation—you’ve been kinda rammin’ it down the rest of our throats right along with breakfast,” Mary-Anne drawled, knowing this argument wouldn’t lead to anywhere good – and that the last thing the kids needed was a drag-down, knock out fight between adults right now. “Elaine, let her go back to London—for the concession that Robert won’t interfere with Rowan’s choice on whether she comes back to Hogwarts post-vacay.”

“I don’t think you understand,” Robert said.

“Meh. I do and I don’t. I have a daughter not much older than these kids—and her father is just as Muggle as you are—actually he might be more Muggle than you are.” Mary-Anne shrugged after a moment’s contemplation. “The big difference is Chester and I are still married. Mostly because we learned to _compromise_.”

“So if it had been _your_ daughter, _you_ wouldn’t be concerned?” Robert asked incredulously. Ben snorted and tried to suppress the laugh that came after that.

Mary-Anne looked at her Ben-monster, who was still smirking, even around the bite of waffle he stuffed in his mouth for cover-up.

“Just—if Bellerose had been set on creepin’ on Desi—my cousin, my aunt’s daughter—she’d have tossed him into the nearest wall and put a stiletto heel in his balls until he gave an unbreakable that he’d not even look at her again,” Ben said. “Desi and Rowan are two different kinds of girls. We’d be worried—I think—but as much about what Desi would do in retaliation as about how Desi was copin’.”

* * *

Robert knew his eyes were about bugging out of his head, but after the day – and night – and morning – he’d had, he was about done with pretending that he wasn’t completely out of his depth and unsure where to turn. Were _all_ witches this—formidable?

Well, Wendy wasn’t – at least, not frighteningly so. But Elaine – her niece Vivianne – and now Mary-Anne …

Maybe it was the magic. Maybe if a woman grew up knowing she could use a spell to zap anyone who bothered her, she didn’t feel quite as pressured to be compliant and agreeable as her normal counterpart.

“M-M-Mum?” Rowan asked, and Robert stopped wondering about witches in general to wonder about—well—his daughter. “M-m-maybe—m-m-maybe it w-w-would be a g-g-good idea for m-m-me to g-go home with D-Dad. I m-m-mean—you can g-get to L-London a lot easier than he can get to H-Hogsmeade.”

“That’s—certainly true,” Elaine agreed. “Is that what you want, sweet?”

“I …” Rowan’s eyes dropped and she started to stir her apple into the yoghurt again. Not a good sign. “W-w-well—it m-m-makes the m-most sense.”

That was also not a good sign.

“And …” She bit her lip. “I k-k-kind of w-w-would like to go—home.”

Robert would have been blind not to see the bare second of hurt that flashed in Elaine’s eyes. The only reason why he didn’t wince was because Rowan was looking at her plate. She wouldn’t have seen Elaine – but she might see him.

“And—m-m-maybe,” Rowan looked up and around the infirmary, “m-m-maybe you all can c-c-come v-v-visit? Over the h-holiday, I mean. I m-m-mean—if w-w-we’re all g-g-going home …”

“Yes,” said Jon, causing Wendy’s sister Beth to smack his forearm.

“We’ll be stayin’ in London, so I’m sure you an’ Ben can get together—maybe even with Desi, too,” said Mary-Anne. She added to Ben, “I don’t think your uncle an’ cousin will be keen on takin’ another flight all the way up here.”

Ben didn’t answer – probably because Rowan was beaming at him, and he was smiling back. Robert decided he would worry about that later.

Not least because he had much more—worrying things to worry about. “A visit to Muggle London?” Vivianne mused, eyebrows lifting, but sounding quite intrigued.

_… God help me._

“You—you w-w-would want to come?” asked Rowan, sounding shocked.

“What, I’m not invited?” Vivianne drawled in response.

“N-n-no! I m-m-mean—n-n-not that at all—I j-j-just—it’s _M-Muggle_ L-London—and I th-thought—”

“Relax, Rowan, I’m teasing,” Vivianne replied. “Of course I would want to come. I’ve never seen Muggle London.”

“B-b-but … your m-m-mum?” asked Rowan.

“Wouldn’t your mother want you to go to Paris with her?” asked Zach.

_Paris?_ Robert wondered – as he wondered why Elaine was rolling her eyes – but what he really wondered about, and what troubled him quite a bit, was how Vivianne rolled _her_ eyes and waved her hand, as if her mother’s opinion wasn’t even worth considering.

… Then again … Robert had only seen Josie twice, seventeen years apart – and she’d barely changed. Vivianne seemed more mature than Josie already.

That was also troubling, in its way, but at least it wasn’t a way that Robert felt an obligation or frankly had the ability to do much about.

“So—that’s settled, then?” Robert asked. He ruffled Rowan’s hair. “You come home to London – and we’ll have some visits with your friends – and we’ll … sort everything else out later.”

Rowan looked up and around. “Y-y-yeah. I think that’s s-s-settled.”

“Great,” said Jon. “Now, Zach, if we can just figure out a way for everyone to find out what happened without Quill killing us – then we’ll be all set.”


	53. Chapter 52: In the End

**Chapter 52: In the End**

“Disappointed to be leaving?” Aunt Mary-Anne asked as Ben looked up over his shoulder at the castle. Miri, once again under the wing of Professor Kilduff and in charge of Chance, waved at the carriages that Flitwick had ordered up to take the four families down to Hogsmeade. Ben waved back.

“Not really. I never spend Christmas with you guys. I’ll adjust,” Ben told her, turning back forward.

“I’m sure you will.” Mary-Anne smiled and put an arm around his shoulder. “You’re pretty good at that.” She was quiet for a moment, but then sighed and looked at him. “You know, I can’t entirely say as regards your mom, but I know Aiden would be proud of you.”

“For almost getting myself killed—and/or kicked out of school?” Ben shook his head.

“School-schmool. Your dad was hardly a saint. Hell, I’m pretty sure his inability to leave a damsel in distress is exactly what caused him to meet your mom.” Mary-Anne grinned at him.

“That’d be cool. I mean—being like my dad.” Ben smiled back.

“I honestly don’t know a lot of ways you could be how you are—and stop being like your dad,” Mary-Anne told him, then cast her gaze out of the carriage at the passing countryside.

_Cool_ , Ben thought before looking out the window himself.

* * *

Rowan had said she wanted to go home, but they ended up stopping at her mum’s cottage first. Elaine had to set things up with the Floo Office to make sure that a Muggle (Robert) _could_ travel by Floo. But once that was done, once Rowan could go _home_ , once she stepped out of the fireplace and looked around the familiar flat …

She didn’t feel much of anything.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Robert said. He checked his watch. “Rowan—once lunchtime comes, would you like to go out? Or maybe order in? I—well, I didn’t do as much shopping as I ought to have on Sunday. Sorry about that,” he said, including Elaine in the apology.

Elaine waved her hand. “Don’t worry about it. Shopping will sort itself out when it sorts itself out.”

Robert flashed her a quick smile, ruffled Rowan’s hair, and hurried to the kitchen.

“Rowan?” asked Elaine softly.

Rowan started. She didn’t know why. She hadn’t been doing – or seeing – or even thinking – much of anything. “I—I sh-should unpack.”

“Okay, sweet.” Elaine waved her wand and Rowan’s trunk made its way to her bedroom. Elaine still carried Darwin’s cage, which she handed to Rowan. “Do you need any help?”

Rowan shook her head and retreated to her bedroom.

But once she got there, she didn’t unpack. She put Darwin’s cage in its usual spot near the window and opened the door – even if Darwin couldn’t leave until nightfall, he usually felt better with the door open.

Then Rowan went to her bed and sat down.

It was much smaller than the four-poster she slept in at Hogwarts. It would take some getting used to – it always did.

Her stuffed falcon – a present from her granddad when she was born – sat nestled against the pillows, just where she had left him last September. Rowan picked him up and absently began to trace her fingers along the wings.

So much had changed since she had last held this guy …

Rowan’s mind went quiet and still, and she looked at the falcon and didn’t think of much of anything in particular, until she took a deep breath and smelled something.

Darjeeling tea.

_A shining, mother-of-pearl liquid in a cup, steam coming off the top, and the smells of leather and old books; of Darjeeling tea; of sandalwood and cedar with a spicy undertone of ginger, nutmeg, and just a hint of leather—_

Rowan dropped the falcon with a gasp.

_Knock-knock._ “Rowan, sweet? Everything all right?” asked Elaine.

Had Rowan shut the door? She didn’t _remember_ shutting the door.

She turned around and saw that no, she hadn’t. Her mother was standing right there, her hand still on the doorframe. And it would have taken an invisibility cloak to hide the concern on her face.

Rowan opened her mouth, closed it, and shook her head.

She turned back around.

“Can I come in?” Elaine asked.

Rowan nodded.

She heard her mother’s footfalls she slowly stepped forward. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Rowan swallowed. “The—s-s-stuff he g-g-gave me smelled like D-Dad’s t-tea,” Rowan admitted. “W-why—what k-k-kind of p-potion smells like t-t-tea?”

Maybe it was because Rowan was listening so closely, but she felt that the silence stretched out forever. But maybe it didn’t. Maybe it only lasted a few seconds.

“Amortentia,” Elaine said finally. “It smells like what you love.”

“Amor …” Rowan started, and trailed off. She looked up to find her mother watching her, frowning, worry lines creased between her brows. “B-b-but—that’s a _l-l-l-love_ …”

Her hands were starting to tremble, and she couldn’t finish.

Elaine sat down, very slowly, on the bed beside Rowan. Rowan leaned against her, and Elaine put both arms around her and held her close.

“He didn’t touch you,” Elaine said quietly. “While you were unconscious. I had Madam Pomfrey check. There was no sign of—anything.”

“B-b-but—he put that— _underwear_ on me—and …”

“I know,” Elaine murmured.

“And—and I c-c-couldn’t _think_! N-n-not—n-not while it was on—and the p-p-potion—” Rowan shuddered, remembering the warm, soapy feel of the potion, the obsession, the way her thoughts swirled around _him_ , how she couldn’t—

Until she thought of Ben.

_Sandalwood and cedar, with a spicy undertone of ginger, nutmeg, and just a hint of leather—_

“W-w-why, Mum?” Rowan looked up. “W-w-why—d-d-do all th-that—and …?”

“Probably because he needed you to—love him,” Elaine said, sounding like the words made her want to throw up. “To get around the love-lock on the sword. So he couldn’t hurt you.”

“B-b-b-but … s-s-so you m-m-mean he was g-g-going to—he w-w-wanted to—” Rowan felt herself start to shake.

“He _didn’t_ ,” Elaine replied, holding Rowan tightly enough that they were both trembling as she rocked her from side to side. “No matter what he was planning—no matter what kind of Dark magic he had up his sleeve—he didn’t get a chance to use any of it. Ok?”

Rowan felt her lower lip start to tremble. “If—if only I’d j-j-just g-g-gone home on the t-t-train—”

“ _Don’t_!”

Rowan jumped.

But Elaine didn’t give her a chance to recover. She put her hands on Rowan’s shoulders and held her at an arm’s length. Emerald eyes met emerald with barely a blink. “Don’t start thinking that way. I mean it. ‘If onlies,’ regrets—they get you _nowhere_. You—you start walking down that path …” Elaine shuddered. “Think of it this way. Because you went down to Hagrid’s hut, Bellerose tried. And he _failed_. And now he will never, I _promise_ you, he will _never_ hurt you or anyone else again.” Elaine took one hand off Rowan’s shoulder to put it under her chin and tilt her head up slightly. “Remember that. Because you went to Hagrid’s hut by yourself, he had his chance to try, and it blew up in his face.”

Elaine didn’t say the rest, but Rowan heard it anyway. If he hadn’t had that opportunity—he might have tried at a different time—and maybe …

She shuddered.

“It’s okay, baby,” Elaine said, hugging Rowan close again. “It’s okay. It’s all over now.”

Rowan didn’t answer.

“And you know none of this was your fault,” Elaine added. “Right?”

Rowan looked up, a hundred protests crowding her mind—

She stopped.

She saw nothing but complete sincerity on her mother’s face. Her protests died.

“This wasn’t your fault,” Elaine said again.

Guessing what her mother wanted, Rowan repeated, “It w-w-wasn’t m-m-my f-f-fault.”

“Good girl.” Elaine kissed the top of her head. “Now we’ll just keep saying that as long as you need to hear it – and you keep saying that to yourself. And – everything will be okay.”

“Okay.” Rowan swallowed. “It wasn’t m-m-my f-f-fault.”

“That’s right, baby. Not your fault at all.”

Rowan edged a little closer to her mother, and closed her eyes, and just concentrated on all of this not being her fault.

* * *

“She’ll be okay,” Zach told Jon, knowing he needed to hear it was much as Jon did.

“I know. Honey-bear is made of sturdier stuff than any of us give her credit for.” Jon sighed and leaned his head onto Zach’s shoulder as they looked out at the featureless landscape off the dock. Except, Zach thought, maybe Vivianne. “I was surprised that Blair said that—she—would tell Quill and Candice for us.”

“I think this is a case of don’t look the gift hippogriff in the mouth,” Zach said. “Besides, she is seeing them tonight.”

“I’m not looking the hippogriff in the mouth,” Jon smirked. “Although I would like to be there when Candice heard you implying that Blair’s a hippogriff.”

“I’m not. I’m implying that her telling Candice and Quill is the hippogriff,” Zach shot back.

“Whatever,” Jon said. “So next time my closest thing to a sister is kidnapped and put in racy, will-sapping lingerie, you will call me before you go out to rescue her, right?”

“Well, I will start by saying I hope that it never happens ever, ever, again,” Zach told him. “But should it happen again, no—I’m leaving you at home again.”

“Why?” Jon asked, the huffs of his breath visible in the cold wind off the water.

“Because I don’t want to have to break _you_ out of Azkaban, Narcissus.” He ruffled Jon’s hair. “Nor do I want to find a bucket to clean the would-be-rapist into.”

Jon pulled a chocolate frog and a packet of ice mice out of his jacket. “Isn’t that what friends are for?”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t break you out of Azkaban, Jonny, just that I didn’t _want_ to.” Zach bit into his frog and smiled as the chocolate spread across his tongue.

“Just so you know—I’d break you out too,” Jon told him. “After Rowan planned the logistics—she owes you one, you know.”

“Nah—the first one is free.”

* * *

Vivianne was standing at the threshold of a particular door in Caer Tintagel. She held a letter, the enveloped carefully folded and clearly inscribed with her name. She was hesitating.

In front of her was her grandmother’s study. In her hand was her grandmother’s last letter.

Vivianne had never been able to simply run into that study, heedless of everything but her need or her want to see her grandmother. One always walked, one knocked, one waited to be invited in. Running into the study – that was what she did with her grandfather.

It had been hard, those first few weeks and months, walking by his study and knowing he wasn’t in there. This … was harder.

And reading her grandmother’s letter … knowing that was the last she would ever hear from her …

That was hard, too.

But she had to do something.

Vivianne closed her eyes, reached for the doorknob, and let herself inside, shutting the door behind her.

The study was silent. But maybe – perhaps because her eyes were closed – it felt occupied. Warm. There was just a hint of gardenias, orange flowers, and sandalwood …

_Grandmother’s perfume,_ Vivianne thought, and almost sobbed.

Almost.

Slowly, she opened her eyes.

The study looked much as it always had: tastefully decorated in blues and dark woods, with Louis XIII being the primary decorative influence. Magical tools and knickknacks were artfully arranged on the tables and desk. And of course there were the bookshelves, stuffed full of books of every type, from financial records to histories to magical theory.

But there were signs of change. Igraine had always been one to put her files away before leaving the room – often in locked or warded (or both) drawers – but there were scraps of parchment and entire scrolls placed here and there. Between the Aurors and Great-Aunt Dindrane, Igraine’s files would probably be pawed over for months.

_Sorry, Grandmother._

Slowly, Vivianne sat down in the chair that always been “hers” – the guest chair that faced the occupant of the desk, the one to the right. She took a deep breath and glanced at her grandmother’s chair.

It was empty, of course. Igraine would not have come back as a ghost – Vivianne knew that much. If she had, it would have saved them all a great deal of trouble.

But Igraine was never one to save someone trouble when she knew they could handle themselves well enough without her help.

Vivianne took a deep breath and, watching the chair – because she refused to look toward the ceiling and say this; that would just be _too_ cliché – started to speak.

“We got him, Grandmother,” she said. “By we – I mean Zach, my boyfriend; Ben Moore; and … Rowan.” She swallowed. “It was Rowan who led us to him, sort of. He—kidnapped her. To get the sword.”

Vivianne swallowed again. “You knew, more or less, what was going on, didn’t you, Grandmother? The Aurors haven’t told us what Bellerose has to say for himself yet, but it’s a fairly obvious inference. You were trying to stop him. So … he killed you.

“But he didn’t get away with it.” Vivianne tilted her chin up and sat up straighter. Her hand tightened on the letter. “Zach, Ben, and I hit him with everything we had. Even Rowan helped. And once we were done with him – we left him in a body-bind for the Aurors to do with as they wish. Simple enough, really.”

There was a faint hint of disapproval in the silence. Vivianne sighed and added, “I mean, I _may_ have dangled him over the sword and armor and threatened to drop him, but—Zach talked me down before I could do anything … permanent. So there was no harm done there.”

Vivianne glanced at her skirt. She smoothed it, gathering her thoughts and her courage. The letter looked up at her, the name written on the front inviting her to open it up and see what it had to say.

But she wasn’t finished yet.

“He didn’t hurt Rowan. I don’t think,” Vivianne said. “She doesn’t remember much of what happened. Honestly, I think that’s for the best. She—doesn’t deserve that.

“Nobody would,” Vivianne added in a whisper.

She peeked through her lashes at the empty chair.

There was a faint feeling of encouragement, an urge to go on. “You don’t need to worry about the sword and armor,” Vivianne continued. “I’ve already fire-talked Great-Aunt Laurelle, Great-Aunt Enid, Great-Aunt Dindrane, and Aunt Nell. They’ll be coming here for supper, and once we’ve gotten rid of Mother, we’ll determine what to do about the sword and armor. I have a few ideas, but … well, we’ll see what they think.” Vivianne shrugged. “If all else fails, we can toss them in the sea. Not the lake – sorry, Morgan, if you’re listening – that would be a bit too obvious at this juncture.”

Vivianne stopped again, looking up at the chair. Surely that was all she needed to say? Surely that was all …

It wasn’t. She knew it – and the silence in the study knew it, too. So did the letter on her lap.

Vivianne swallowed and glanced again at that letter. “And … you don’t need to worry about Rowan, either. Or Aunt Elaine—not that I imagine you would, really. Aunt Elaine seems like the type to make other people worry about _their_ relations. Which is as it should be, with her being a Gor—”

Vivianne hesitated. “With her being a Gorlois,” she finally finished. “As she was before. And as she will be again. Rowan, too.”

She looked up, staring levelly at the empty chair. “One way or another, Grandmother. You—you trusted Rowan enough to make her Keeper of the Book. And I think …” She fingered the letter. “I think, even without—without reading your letter—yet—that I understand why.

“But—but I will read your letter. I will. Just not … yet. And I’ll bring Rowan and Aunt Elaine back into the clan. That I promise.”

The empty chair did not answer. Even in the wizarding world, it would have been a shock if it had.

But all the same—Vivianne got the sense that the silence approved.

* * *

“You can’t be surprised that her dad would want to meet everyone even remotely attached to the group after what happened. I’m surprised, given what you said, that he’s planning on letting her out at all,” Ben’s cousin said over her shoulder as they got out of the car. Uncle Chester had only almost gotten them killed four times on the way over and was now arguing with the rental car fob.

“I’m not surprised. Well, not true, I might be the teensiest bit surprised that he hasn’t gone full on Rapunzel with her yet,” Ben admitted, opening the whitewashed iron gate that lead into a pocket of a front patio with little more whimsy than some boxwood shrubs and a white bench. He held it open for his aunt, cousin, and uncle.

“That would be incredibly impractical, especially as he’s got no way to make it an anti-Apparating zone, which means he’d be the most inconvenienced of you all. You guys could pop in and out of the tower while Dr. O’Blake’s stuck climbing weave.”

“What now?” Zach and Rowan said from the top of the half-flight of stairs leading to the front door, in that curious unison that mostly came from best friends thinking the same thing.

“Oh, I was just explaining to Benjamin here why her dad’s not going to lock her in a tower.” Desi gestured at Rowan.

“Because I’m not that over-protective?” Dr. O’Blake asked from behind Rowan.

“Yes, you are. You’re just not that stupid,” Desi said with a toothpaste commercial bright smile. “You must be Dr. O’Blake; I’m the infamous cousin Desi.” She held her hand out to Rowan’s dad who took it slightly tentatively.

“Although most people would guess her for Cruella de Ville cosplaying as Harley Quinn.” Ben smirked behind his hand.

“They both have awesome fashion sense. Which—is more than I can say for some.” Desi flicked her eyes over Ben and smirked.

“Yeah. But I won’t spend half the afternoon bitching about my feet hurtin’ either. Sorry, Dr. O’Blake. The whole rapid-fire snark thing is genetic; we all have it.” Ben shoved his hands into his coat. “An’ as we’re passing out introductions, this here’s my uncle Chester.”

Chester limped forward and shook Dr. O’Blake’s hand. “‘Lo.”

“Don’t mind Daddy,” Desi told the group at large. “He’s only got so many words in in him, and most of those words are reserved for talking politics. So if you’re smart, you won’t start him on that.”

“Desi, be nice—and maybe stand a few steps further back—at the top of the stairs there Dr. O’Blake’s nose is practically in your cleavage.” Mary-Anne shook her head at her family. “It’s good to see you again, Dr. O’Blake.”

“… Likewise. Do come in.”

“Before we scare the neighbors,” Ben and Desi muttered in unison.

* * *

Rowan giggled behind her hand – it was easier to do that than to think in detail about her father’s nose in Ben’s cousin’s cleavage – waited for Ben to bring up the rear behind his relatives, and took his hand in hers. “H-hi.”

“Hey there,” Ben said, ducking down to kiss her cheek – after a quick glance ahead to make sure nobody was watching. Zach was, but he quickly looked away, and he really didn’t count anyway. Not for this. “How are you doin’?”

“G-g-good,” Rowan answered. And it was true. This hadn’t been her best Christmas, not by a long shot, but she was … good. Not _all_ right, not by a long shot, but …

It all could have been so much worse. Rowan was telling herself that. A few nightmares – a strong aversion to Darjeeling tea – they were nothing to worry about, not really.

“Y-you?” she asked in return.

“All right,” Ben answered, but he raised an eyebrow at her.

Rowan shrugged at him with half a smile, a promise to tell him more later, when his entire family wasn’t in earshot and when she had worked out what it was she wanted to say.

“So, Rowan.” That was Desi, peeling off her gloves with the practiced study of a burlesque dancer and flouncing onto the sofa with more careless grace than Rowan had ever shown in her life. “Tell us a little about yourself, darlin’. I think you’re the first girlfriend our Benjamin’s ever gone charging off into certain death for.”

Rowan blinked and started to flush. Tall, with hair half black and half bleached blonde, startling blue-green eyes, and a few tattoos that Rowan could just catch glimpses of – Rowan thought that was a _Wicked_ tattoo on Desi’s sternum, but looking enough to make sure would all too likely be misinterpreted as staring at Desi’s cleavage, so she decided she could live with the curiosity – Desi was … intimidating, that was the word for it. “Oh—um—”

“Hardly certain death,” Ben interrupted, winking at Rowan. “Bein’ as I’m still here an’ all. We all are, in fact, other than the guy who was dead when we walked in the front door.”

“An’ I guess that guy’s not your fault,” Desi granted with a shrug.

Rowan simply shook her head. If the ghost that Ben, Zach, and Vivianne had run into was who she thought he was – the Cyneric who had first attacked Morgan’s stronghold and caused the whole messy situation that led to the ruins being created – it wasn’t anywhere close to any of their faults.

Desi glanced at Rowan, and Rowan felt another question coming on—mercifully cut off by the _whoosh_ of the Floo. Rowan poked her head into the lounge to see Vivianne climbing out of the fireplace, as calm and unruffled as if she did this every day.

Then again, what with her being a witch from a wealthy family with an unlimited supply of Floo Powder – she very well might do this every day.

“V-Vivianne’s here, D-D-Dad,” Rowan called over her shoulder. “C-come on in,” she said, waving her cousin forward.

Maybe if she could put her cousin and Ben’s cousin in a head-to-head matchup, that would take some of the focus from _her_ …

Vivianne smiled – yes, Rowan was pretty sure that was a smile – although since Zach was right behind her, it might not have been aimed at her.

And of course once Vivianne made her way into the room, there was another round of introductions to be made. Rowan couldn’t help but notice the faintly appraising look Vivianne shot at Desi. Desi deflected it with a thousand-watt grin.

That might have been more frightening than all of Vivianne’s sneers, eyebrow raises and eye rolls.

“S-s-s-so—should we g-g-get going?” Rowan asked. She glanced at her wristwatch. “W-w-we d-d-do want to see all the shops and s-stuff. And it’ll t-t-take some time to get into the W-West End.”

“Are you sure you all want to go by yourselves?” Robert asked. “I mean—I could drive you.”

Rowan took a deep breath, tried not to blush, and reminded herself that at least everyone in this room knew exactly why her father was being protective. At least they wouldn’t—

“Or maybe Desi can go with y’all,” Mary-Anne suggested. “She’ll do for adult supervision, won’t you, Desi?”

Before Desi could answer, Robert quickly backpedaled, “On—on second thought—I mean, if the kids want to go by themselves—I suppose …”

Mary-Anne grinned, and Rowan couldn’t help but get the sense that she’d gotten just the reaction she was hoping for.

With that, there was nothing else to do but gather coats (not cloaks, and thankfully Vivianne had stuck to that rule) and gloves and hats, make their way out of the house, and head down the street to the nearest Tube station.

“It’ll t-t-take us a bit to g-g-get there,” Rowan said almost apologetically. “B-b-but—the West End is where all the great shops are. P-Piccadilly Circus, th-that k-k-kind of thing. To b-b-buy anything is awfully expensive, but w-w-window sh-shopping is always f-f-free.”

“Piccadilly Circus,” Vivianne repeated, musingly, as she put her arm through Zach’s. “Why does that sound familiar?”

“It shows up in a few Agatha Christie novels,” Zach said, smiling at her.

“Oh—oh, yes. I remember now,” Vivianne said, and—there was another smile, although this one was _definitely_ aimed in Zach’s direction.

Rowan shook her head, trying to wrap her mind around the fact that her more-pureblooded-than-though, to-the-ancient-witches’-manor-born cousin apparently read Muggle murder mysteries in her spare time. She glanced sidelong at Ben to see if he was catching this.

Ben was just smirking, as if he was laughing at a joke only he had been able to hear. He caught her watching him and grinned. “So,” he asked, in a low tone that might not be caught by Zach and Vivianne – maybe – “how are you doin’?”

Rowan took a deep breath. She laced her fingers through Ben’s and leaned her head on his shoulder.

She smelled something. Sandalwood and cedar, a spicy undertone of ginger and nutmeg, and given that Rowan was leaning her head on Ben’s jacket, far more than just a hint of leather.

But unlike the tea, it didn’t make her stomach twist and turn. Unlike the smell of old books, it didn’t make her have to close her eyes and remind herself that she was _here_ , not _there_. It just made her feel … safe.

So Rowan smiled up at him. “I’ve b-b-been a l-l-lot b-better. B-b-but I think I’m okay.”

Ben smiled, and for the moment, he seemed content to let it rest at that.

* * *

“I think we broke his brain,” Ben laughed as he swung himself up onto the train. Vivianne regarded him with a faint frown. “Don’t imagine it’s every day that that ticket guy gets the American helping the Londoner with the money while the Scot and the Cornwaller look on vaguely puzzled.”

“It w-was the m-m-maths that t-t-tripped me up, n-not the m-money—and y-y-you’re the one doing m-maths,” Rowan scolded as Ben grimaced just slightly.

“W-what?”

“I know for a fact that I am the last person to complain about certain phrases that are regionally specific, but there’s just something about ‘maths’ that drives me bats,” Ben shrugged.

“What’s wrong with maths?” Zach had to ask.

“It’s the plural form of a word I have gone my whole life saying as a singular, mostly.” Ben flopped down on the seat next to Rowan, who once more tucked herself under his arm and burrowed into his leather coat with a contented sigh. “To my ears, you’re saying it wrong.”

“And how do you know you are right?” Vivianne asked from where she sat, finger tracing over the mesh cut blue leather of Zach’s jacket sleeve. He’d seen it in a shop window one day while visiting Rowan and mentioned it in passing to his mother, who a few days later presented him with a jacket nearly identical to the one he had seen.

“Because I’ve never heard a good explanation for where the plural is,” Ben said with a shrug. Vivianne smirked.

“So Rowan, I have an inquiry, if I may?” Vivianne asked.

“Um, I g-g-guess—unless it’s h-h-how I’m d-doing—and then only b-because if t-t-twenty minutes goes b-by without s-someone asking—I’m either asleep—or f-f-feel the need to alert the _P-P-Prophet_.” Rowan sighed.

“Oh, nothing of that kind,” Vivianne assured. “How good are your good dress robes?” Rowan frowned before looking thoughtful.

“My—b-b-best set is a l-l-little—uh—t-t-tight, in a c-couple of p-p-p-places.” Rowan looked sidelong at Zach and then at Ben, blushing crimson. “I f-f-figured—as I wasn’t g-g-going to need a n-n-new set until n-n-next s-s-summer, I’d just l-l-look through W-W-Wendy’s l-l-look book before the p-p-party for Zach and Jon. Um, w-why?”

“Because, quite honestly, one wants as much armor in place when one is _presenting one’s self_ to Great-Aunt Laurelle. And I would like you to come to dinner next week. We have a few things to discuss.”

“D-d-dinner? At—at Caer T-T-Tintagel? W-Won’t your m-mother object?” Rowan whispered bewildered, even though the train car was mostly empty.

“Mother is already back in Paris—and quite honestly, good riddance to her. If she isn’t attempting—badly, mind you—to scold me over my participation in—the incident, she’s either petting me like a mink stole or nattering on about how no domestically produced robes could hold a candle to what we’d find in Paris.” Vivianne rolled her eyes. “Perhaps we can make a day of it—I’m certain Aunt Nell wouldn’t mind, and neither would Snow and Les.”

“… W-Who?”

“Honestly, when you have all of four family names, you need some way to differentiate. Aunt Nell’s daughters are Lyonesse Dindrane and Guinevere Lynette, but she calls them Elle and Snow, respectively. Les is the family nickname for Lyonesse,” Vivianne explained.

“I g-g-guess that’s t-t-true.” Rowan scuffed her toe at the floor of the train.

“And we need you prepared for your role,” Vivianne said, brushing her hair back from her face with a wistful smile.

“My r-r-role?” Rowan asked.

“As Keeper, of course.”

“And if I t-t-told you I’d r-r-rather actually p-p-play keeper—in a g-g-grudge match—w-w-with exploding Quaffles—than h-have that r-r-role?”

“I’d ignore you, of course. Gorlois women do what they need to; wants are secondary, despite what my mother might think,” Vivianne said, her chin rising up.

“Welp, there y’go, darlin’.” Ben smirked. “Your choices are be like your cousin or be like your aunt. Between you and me I’ll take the cousin. She’s scarier, but far less annoying.”

Rowan looked like she’d just bit into a lemon.

“Ours is the n-n-next stop,” Rowan announced, obviously attempting to change the subject. And it worked to a degree. Nothing more was actually said until after they got off the train and found themselves on a West End street still charmingly decorated for the holiday.

“Can’t you go easy on her?” Zach asked after Rowan and Ben had pulled ahead for Rowan to look at a store window.

“No, unfortunately,” Vivianne admitted; she slid her arm through his and walked off toward a display of furs. “We both have to be ready. I’d give her time if I could. You … don’t think she’ll be … overwhelmed, do you?”

Zach kissed Vivianne’s temple. “She’ll hold up just fine—that’s what Gorlois women do, right?”

Vivianne paused for a moment, looking covetously at a silver pelt muffler in the window—as well as thoughtful.

“Yes, that’s what _we_ do.” Vivianne leaned her head against Zach’s shoulder. She even smiled, fondly if Zach was a judge, at Rowan, who was attempting to drag Ben through the crowd to show him something. Vivianne stuck her hand in her pocket, crinkling something that sounded like parchment. She pulled it out and looked at it for a moment.

“What’s that?” Zach asked, curiously.

“It’s the letter from my grandmother. I don’t know why I—why …” She sighed.

“Was it not what you thought it would be?” Zach asked, unhooking his arm from hers to put it around her shoulder.

“Well, no, it wasn’t. But not for the reason I think I’d have thought,” Vivianne admitted.

“Why so, then?”

“It wasn’t a long analytical thing, or even tips on how to be a better Matriarch. Mostly—mostly she told me she loved me; that I would do fine, she knew that; a little about Rowan and the book, but …” Vivianne shook her head and glanced after Ben and Rowan again; Ben was saying something, smirking all the while, and had Rowan bowed over laughing hysterically.

“Maybe she told you what she thought you needed to hear most,” Zach suggested. For some reason Vivianne’s smile broadened exponentially—just for a moment.

“… That sounds like my grandmother.”

“C’mon you two! Rowan’s the forerunner here, and we’ve all got at least seven inches on her,” Ben called back to them.

* * *

When Vivianne was young, she always thought that Diagon Alley was a crowded, glorious, magical wonderland. It was certainly one of the most people-packed places she had ever been, at least until it was time for Hogwarts.

That was nothing compared to the West End.

Vivianne had known intellectually that Muggles outnumbered wizardkind by a factor of “too high to count” to one. But seeing it in the press of people that surrounded her and Zach from all sides was another thing.

Zach, she knew, had spent time in Muggle London, so he had to be used to it. Rowan had been born there. And Ben practically was a Muggle anyway, wand and dueling skill notwithstanding.

So rather than indicate how odd and out of her depth she felt, Vivianne rolled her shoulders back, tilted her chin in the air, and pretended that she braved London crowds every day of the week and twice on Sundays, thank you very much.

And had fun.

They window-shopped for a while, walked through the decorated streets, and eventually made it across the river to a gigantic wheel that Rowan called the London Eye. There were little capsules that one could ride in, and they took one of the capsules all the way up to the top, where they could catch a complete view of the city. Vivianne was only halfway up before she gave up pretending not to be impressed and simply was impressed.

“But how do they do it?” Vivianne asked. They had the capsule to themselves, so she could speak freely. “Without magic, I mean?”

“Electricity,” Rowan replied. “And ph-physics.”

“An’ a whole lot o’ weldin’,” Ben added.

“Electricity,” Vivianne repeated. She glanced out the window, watching the sun wink on the slow-moving river. “It almost makes me wish I’d taken Muggle Studies …”

“Almost?” Zach asked, putting his arm around her and watching the river as well.

Vivianne turned back to him with a smirk. “Almost.”

When their ride finished, they did a bit more walking, a bit more sightseeing – Rowan pointed out where Parliament, the Muggle Wizengamot, met, and she talked about some of the other sights that weren’t far away: Shakespeare’s Globe, Westminster Abbey, Covent Garden. They wouldn’t have time to see them all that day … but perhaps, Vivianne permitted herself to think, someday they would.

But before long – too soon, in Vivianne’s mind, though she wasn’t ready to admit that – they were boarding one of those underground trains and making their way back to near Rowan’s house.

They didn’t head there right away, though. Rowan took a small black box from her bag and had an entire conversation on it while they were waiting for the train. “D-Dad says he d-d-doesn’t mind if we eat out,” she said. “We c-c-can stop at a g-g-good place I know – it’s g-g-got just enough r-r-room for a few people to eat in, s-s-so it’s not just t-takeaway.”

_Takeaway?_ Vivianne wondered, though she didn’t have to wonder long.

They ended up walking into a small restaurant decorated in oranges and yellows. The smell made Vivianne blink. It smelled like … like … like nothing she had ever experienced before.

Rowan seemed to know the proprietors, because she only had to wave for one of them – a tall, black-haired woman of Indian descent – to quickly show them to a table. She even had a smile for Zach.

“D-D-Dad and I order f-f-from here all the time,” Rowan said as they sat down. “Th-thanks, K-Kumari.”

“No trouble, Rowan dear.” Her look might have been Indian, but the woman’s accent was straight out of London.

She handed out menus, and for a moment there was silence as they all looked theirs over. As for Vivianne, her eyes grew wider and wider with each passing moment. She understand a few words – such as chicken, lamb, goat – but what on earth was tandoori? Or masala? (Was it at all related to the Italian marsala?) And naan, what was that?

“H-h-have you—ever had Indian t-takeaway, Vivianne?” Rowan asked, very slowly.

Vivianne looked up and slowly shook her head.

“Jon and I hadn’t, either, before Rowan took us here,” Zach said. “Here—try the tikka masala. You can choose your own spice level, and it’s very good.”

“It’s the b-b-best thing they d-d-do here,” Rowan added. “Especially the ch-chicken.”

“Chicken tikka masala,” Vivianne repeated, glancing at the menu and trying to find it.

“First time with Indian food can be a little overwhelmin’,” Ben said … sympathetically?

“They—have this in Texas?” Vivianne asked.

“Not so much in my neck o’ the woods – but there’s a lot of Indian places in Dallas. Plus, you know, I _do_ stay in London from time to time, darlin’,” Ben pointed out.

“How close is Dallas to your hometown?” asked Zach, possibly to save Ben’s skin from Vivianne’s tongue.

Ben raised an eyebrow as he pondered that. “‘Bout three hundred and fifty miles, give or take a few,” he said. “But it’s the closest big – y’know, _big_ – city to Prairie Dog Fork that’s still in Texas.”

“Three h-h-hundred and f-f-fifty miles?” Rowan gasped.

“Texas is about one and a half times the size of England, darlin’,” Ben said, casually putting an arm around Rowan’s shoulders.

Even Vivianne’s eyes went wide at that. “One and a half times the size?” she asked, reaching for her glass of water.

“Relax. Texas is the second-biggest state. Most of ‘em are a lot smaller,” Ben replied.

Later, Vivianne would wonder if he did this on purpose – or if it was just rotten luck – but just as Vivianne was taking a sip, Ben added, “Except Alaska, o’ course. _That’s_ about twice the size of Texas, an’ then some.”

Vivianne nearly spit her water out.

Luckily Ben was saved from a tongue-lashing – or perhaps an impromptu hexing, after all, Zach was right next to her, so she might be able to fool the Trace – by their waitress coming to take the order.

Once the waitress went away again, Rowan leaned back and sighed. “Th-thanks for c-c-coming, you guys. T-t-today—today was fun.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Zach said, and Ben hugged Rowan a little closer.

Rowan grinned. “S-s-still.”

“Perhaps,” Vivianne murmured, trying out the words in her head before she committed them to reality, “perhaps we might do something similar next Hogsmeade weekend.”

She expected Rowan’s eyes to widen. What she didn’t expect was for Ben to look at Rowan quizzically, or for _Zach_ of all people to frown. “Is that—is that going to be possible, Rowan?” Zach asked gently.

And then Vivianne remembered why: Rowan’s father, the one-ton Erumpet in the room.

Rowan nodded. Slowly, but she nodded. “Mum—M-M-Mum actually c-c-convinced P-Professor Flitwick t-t-to c-come to London s-s-so Dad and Mum and me could all—t-talk it over. D-Dad—D-Dad was k-k-kind of upset about … a l-lot …”

“Well, you did get kidnapped, Rowan,” Ben pointed out. “I mean, I hate the one bringin’ it up … but …”

“And there’s Frida.” Zach sighed. “And Professor Yaxley.”

“Yes, but Frida is no longer a problem,” Vivianne pointed out. “And I can deal with Professor Yaxley—and if you let Spencer just tutor you in Potions, you won’t have to deal with her at all.”

“M-m-my d-d-dad wouldn’t t-take that as an answer, Vivianne,” Rowan said. “B-b-but—Professor F-Flitwick – I was s-s-sitting right th-there, and I d-d-don’t know _how_ he d-d-did it – but s-s-somehow he c-convinced m-m-my dad that Hogwarts w-wasn’t about to l-let anything else happen to m-m-me.”

“That’s great, Rowan,” Zach said, grinning with what had to be relief. Ben just hugged Rowan a little closer.

“Y-y-yeah,” Rowan said. “B-b-but—um—I think what r-r-really s-s-sold my d-d-dad—was that Professor F-Flitwick hinted that the s-school was g-g-going to g-g-get some—n-new leadership.”

Zach’s eyes went wide. “Rove’s getting the sack?”

“He d-d-didn’t _s-s-say_ that—b-b-but …” Rowan shrugged.

“Well, he bloody well deserves it,” Vivianne said. “Having a student kidnapped on your watch shouldn’t be something you get to go on working after – especially since …”

She didn’t finish the thought. She didn’t need to. They all knew what she’d been referring to.

“Besides,” Vivianne switched tactics, “just about anyone would be better than Rove. A _Flobberworm_ would be better than Rove. At least the Flobberworm wouldn’t actively make a mess of things.”

Perhaps because he knew all too well the dark path they’d nearly gone down, Ben lifted his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

And so they did.


	54. Epilogue: Chasing Cars

**Epilogue: Chasing Cars**

Some three months (and a few weeks) later, Vivianne was once again standing at the threshold of her grandmother’s study.

She took a deep breath. She was Matriarch now, officially as well as implicitly. She was seventeen and of age. And while Great-Aunt Dindrane still insisted that she would handle the minutia while Vivianne was at school, the responsibility and the power were hers now.

But the study would not become hers. A Gorlois Matriarch did not move directly into the study of her predecessor. Generally, this was because the former Matriarch became the Dowager and still had need of a study, and the Matriarch already had a study of her own in Caer Tintagel that she’d used as the heir, and moving files and boxes and knickknacks around would just occasion a great deal of irritation for no practical import. But even though Vivianne _could_ move into the study, she … wouldn’t. This was her grandmother’s study.

And she had a great deal to do. She’d just arrived home from school for the Easter holidays, her coming-of-age party was in three days, and she had to check some files and write to Great-Aunt Dindrane about them. She did not have time to woolgather.

Vivianne shook herself, turned the knob, and stepped into the study.

The study was not just as she had left it. She had not expected it to be. The Aurors had still been building their case when she had to go back to school, and of course Great-Aunt Dindrane had to pop in from time to time to check things and continue to settle the estate. It was only natural that there would still be parchments and quills and even the occasional book left out.

What Vivianne hadn’t been expecting was the pile of newspapers.

Vivianne hesitated – she had _such_ a lot to do – but curiosity got the better of her. She moved toward the newspapers.

They were all _Daily Prophets_ – that was to be expected – but it wasn’t three months’ worth of newspapers. Just a few issues that Vivianne could see.

But who had put them in here? And why? Great-Aunt Dindrane? Aunt Nell? Ettie?

Certainly not her mother …

Vivianne glanced at the first newspaper on the pile. In screaming capitals, the headline read: “HORROR AT HOGWARTS! STUDENT KIDNAPPED, ANCIENT ABOMINATION ROAMS THE GROUNDS, GORLOIS MATRIARCH’S MURDERER CAPTURED!”

“Oh, _Merlin_ ,” Vivianne muttered, and turned that newspaper over.

The next headline wasn’t much better. “HARRY POTTER RETURNS TO HOGWARTS! HIGH-RANKING MINISTRY OFFICIAL IMPLICATED IN KIDNAPPING AND MURDER!”

There was a picture of Harry Potter shaking his head as the great doors of Hogwarts closed in front of him.

Vivianne pitied him, she really did. But she turned the paper over anyway.

The next headline was a little calmer: “Ministry Official Terence B. Langley Cleared of Involvement in Gorlois Matriarch Murder.”

Vivianne passed a hand through her hair and shook her head, scanning the article. Not that she expected to get anything from it. The details had been rather … sketchy on that one. Apparently the Ministry wasn’t talking about _how_ it was that Langley had been possessed by the ghost of a long-dead Saxon wizard – just making it clear that however it had happened, it was against Langley’s will.

It almost made Vivianne feel sorry about the _Sectumsempras_ , Pimple Jinx, and Slug-Vomiting Charm she’d put on him.

Almost.

She turned that paper over.

The next one—made her stop.

“BELLEROSE DEPORTED TO FRANCE! DID FRENCH WIZARD GET AWAY WITH MURDER?”

_YES!!!_ Vivianne thought.

But – as if someone was reminding her that to say that wasn’t fair – her eyes fell on a few telling paragraphs in the article.

_“Look, it’s not like any of us are happy about this,” said a harassed-looking Ministry official who refused to be named. “Bellerose murdered a British witch, and he kidnapped, and—well—I don’t even want to go into what he tried to do to that poor little girl. Hey—don’t write that part down!”_

_After our reporter calmed the official down, he went on to say, “Anyway, Bellerose deserves a life in Azkaban, and you won’t find anyone here who says otherwise. One of the Aurors threatened to turn the Head of the Department for International Magical Cooperation into a donkey when she—hey, don’t write that down either! This is supposed to be off the record!”_

_Once the official was reminded of his duty to the public, he went on. “All right. All right. We don’t like the fact that Bellerose is being sent out of the country. But he’ll be spending the rest of his life in French wizarding prison – look, I_ know _which one it is, I just can’t pronounce the name. French isn’t my strong suit. Anyway, this prison is marginally better than Azkaban, because they never had dementors there, but not by much. The point is—he’s never getting out. And I guess the bright side is, this way, British taxpaying witches and wizards don’t have to give him free room and board for the rest of his life.”_

That was, Vivianne supposed, a bright side, however pitiful it might be. It wasn’t much of one. But Great-Aunt Dindrane and Aunt Elaine both had done their share of investigating, and for some reason, the French Ministry had intervened on Bellerose’s behalf and won a plea bargain for him. Aunt Elaine had guessed that it was because Bellerose had killed a pureblooded witch of great renown, so tossing him into Azkaban with the remaining Death Eaters might have amounted to a death sentence. Great-Aunt Dindrane had wrinkled her nose and refused to speculate, saying it was “premature” and “not founded on facts.”

For now, Vivianne would blame Uncle Victor. He’d somehow escaped any responsibility for what had happened – even Aunt Elaine admitted there was no evidence against him, and she doubted he was directly involved in what had happened to Igraine or Rowan – but he was the one who had brought Bellerose into this country. He’d introduced the skunk to the Gorlois family.

And someday, she would find out why. Just … not today.

That seemed to be the last of the newspapers. Vivianne went to gather the rest of them and stack them back on the desk as she had found them.

Except—she stopped.

She’d missed one.

Vivianne glanced at the date – January 3rd, not long before they had all returned to school – and the headline.

She grinned.

“MAXWELL ROVE REMOVED AS HOGWARTS HEADMASTER BY BOARD OF GOVERNORS. PROFESSOR LEO LIPSKIT NAMED HEADMASTER IN HIS STEAD.”

It seemed that not all news was bad news, after all.

* * *

Ben propped up a wall near – but not too near – the punch table. He had expected to spend the Easter holiday at Hogwarts, much as he normally did; however, he was informed that he would be attending the wizarding world’s greatest fete, whether he was still dating Rowan or not.

His eyes flickered over to where she stood, for the moment, with a woman of obvious Gorlois descent who was not much taller than her. She had introduced herself – to Ben – as Rowan’s Aunt Nell (though according to Elaine it was “more complicated than that”) and had coaxed Rowan into the mix of Gorloises currently milling about the ballroom.

She looked beautiful in her robes, almost like a tiny little fairy princess– they had been specially made, Ben had been told, by Wendy for this occasion. A sky-blue tulle underskirt with a thick ribbon of darker blue and bronze running playfully above the flouncy tea-length hem, a strapless bodice that matched the ribbon, with a bronze bow and ribbon at the waist.

Rowan even had the tiara to complete the fairy princess look; it was a scroll-y Lord-of-the-Rings looking piece in hammered bronze with blue gems that Ben would’ve bet money were actual sapphires. It was a gift from Vivianne, Rowan had told him when he complimented her, blushing as red as a rowan, and had been picked out by this Aunt Nell. The bracelet – more bronze scrollwork – was Elaine’s contribution.

He was glad to see her laughing and smiling. Though they didn’t talk much about Christmas, he knew she had bad nights sometimes. As spring had slowly stolen in and replaced winter, it had gotten better, but still, there were some afternoons where they’d go sit on a bench overlooking the lake and Rowan looked haunted as she rested against his shoulder.

Rowan looked back over her shoulder at him and grinned. He grinned back, his eyes slowly tracking over the various guests. There was a sprinkling of people he just knew that Vivianne had to override her mother to get on the guest list.

Over by Zach, who was practically on the opposite end of the ballroom from Vivianne – Vivianne was being pestered, it seemed, by every Gorlois with an axe to grind (which might well have been all of them) – was Jon with his boyfriend and Miri, who looked adorable in her lavender dress and kitty flats, as well as Spencer and Sybilla, who was involved in a glaring match with a woman who bore enough resemblance to Sybilla to be related – somehow.

There were even a few of the instructors from Hogwarts in the crowd, like Professor Longbottom with a blonde woman Ben guessed was his wife. Hagrid, whose burnt orange suit stood out in stark contrast to the elegant styles of the Gorlois women, was standing with Elaine, who sported a slinky, red-sequined number straight out of _Saturday Night Fever_ – and Ben couldn’t tell, but that might have been Harry Potter with his back to them.

Professor Kilduff was not far from Ben, deep in discussion with a man of Gorlois look; she wore buttery yellow, as she quite frequently did when not in her school robes.

But, to Ben’s great amusement, the absolute what-the-fuck invite on the faces of nearly all of the Gorloises was standing near the dance floor, looking rather dapper – actually – in charcoal, with lighter gray pinstripes even. However, the white braid, broadsword, and Knarl sporting a bright red bowtie more or less made sure everyone knew exactly who he was. Zanetti stood with him in a rich royal purple confection trimmed in black lace at the somewhat low neck and black and gold embroidery on the fluttery overskirt.

So apparently the rumors about the two of them being a couple were true, though if you hadn’t seen them here at the soiree, you probably couldn’t have guessed; even Ben couldn’t have guessed, and he was usually really good at judging that sort of thing.

Professor Yaxley was glaring at them from across the room along with Vivianne’s mother. The two managed to look like a couple of mafia molls who had somehow snuck in. Professor Yaxley’s dress was dragon skin in a bright green that didn’t look _horrible_ with her pale complexion, black hair, and Gorlois emerald eyes—but still— _wow_. Some poor dragon died to make that thing.

“Josie” wore black leather – with cutouts – over frothy white lace. It made her head look like it had gotten stuck in a fountain, a comment that her sister had made within moments of arriving.

Thinking of molls made Ben think of Cameron, who was doing … better in his existential crisis, but Ben would admit that he liked the old Cam better. The one who didn’t sink into intermittent periods of deep depression – the one who liked pranks – but until the circumstances changed, that probably wasn’t going to.

But it wasn’t all bad. Booker had met Mr. and Mrs. Gadhavi at the start of spring break and had reported that Mr. Gadhavi even seemed to like him. Mrs. Gadhavi seemed more reserved, but Niketa didn’t seem to care.

The Vasiles had come to a different custody arrangement over the past few months, and Kimmy would be with Ms. Vasile quite a bit over the summer. They’d practically had to scrape Kenny off the ceiling after those letters, and Ben was glad for it.

Ringo’s mom had just completed her ninety-days-clean drug test – which was pretty awesome, and Ringo had been floating right along with Kenny.

Rowan had detached herself from the group and found Ben where he was tucked away.

“Hey, y-you’re supposed to be having f-fun.” Rowan grinned up at him.

“I’m standing here judging people; who says that isn’t fun?” Ben teased.

“I c-c-can think of more f-f-fun things to do than that—unfortunately, Vivianne is m-m-making some sort of announcement here in a few m-m-minutes and I have to be there.” Rowan blushed. “You are going to d-d-dance with me, right?”

“Sure, I do a really mean robot.” Ben mimicked the hand movements just briefly.

“B-Ben …”

* * *

The sides of Ben’s eyes crinkled, just slightly, as he smiled down at her. “Relax, Rowan. We’ll dance. Don’t worry about it. Real dancin’, even.”

Rowan grinned and reached for Ben’s hand. “Th-thanks,” she said. “S-s-so …”

“Rowan!” came a quick hiss. That was Aunt Nell, gesturing to her. Elaine stood not far away. “Vivianne’s about ready to make her announcement.”

Rowan shot an apologetic smile at Ben. “D-duty calls.”

He just winked at her.

Rowan hurried over to Aunt Nell and Elaine, wobbling a bit on her heels, but making it across the slick and shiny floors without much incident.

“D-d-do we know what this about?” Rowan asked as she fell into step with her mother.

“Not a clue,” Elaine admitted. “I was hoping that Vivianne told you.”

Rowan shook her head. She didn’t have much time to say anything else, though, because they quickly came up to where Vivianne and half the clan were standing.

“And here we are,” Vivianne said. She tossed her head, and Rowan tried not to gulp. Her cousin looked – well – “stunning” was one way of putting it. Her gown was long, silky and slinky, emerald green. She matched it with an amethyst cape that sat lightly on her shoulders and trailed on the ground behind her. Rowan had no idea how her cousin was going to dance in that thing … but since Vivianne appeared to have the normal complement of feet (one right, one left), perhaps it wouldn’t be as much of a problem for her.

Vivianne’s jewelry was every bit as stunning: a tiara, a real tiara, of ancient worked silver set with emeralds and amethysts, complete with matching earrings and necklace. She looked like a queen from the top of her head to the bottom of the dragonhide pumps that just peeked out from under her dress.

“Now we can get started,” Vivianne said, shooting a small smile at Elaine, Aunt Nell and Rowan. “Rowan, stand next to me.”

Rowan did so, following Vivianne as she stepped forward slightly. The rest of the assembled Gorloises parted for her like the Red Sea must have parted for Moses. Vivianne lifted her goblet and tapped her wand on it once – just once – but that was enough for everyone to quiet down.

As for Rowan, she glanced at the assembled crowd and tried to figure out just how it was that she was _here_ and not – well – in her bedroom at her mum’s cottage, reading a book.

The last school term had been a whirl. Not as eventful as the first term, but draining all the same. The nightmares, the updates from her mother about how things were going with Bellerose – Vivianne putting her through a crash course on “what it means to be a Gorlois” – none of it was what Rowan had thought of as a good time.

But there were bright spots, too, lots of them. Blair was still fighting a losing battle when it came to getting Candice to study, but at least Blair was happier, more comfortable with— _himself_. He wasn’t ready to come out to the school or his parents, not by a long shot, but as Aubrey pointed out, there was no point upsetting the apple cart when all he had was one term of school left to go. Better to get through NEWTs, move out – and then Blair could truly become his own man.

Blair and Aubrey were actually spending this week looking for a flat to share. Blair’s parents didn’t know about that yet – they’d have a conniption – but Aubrey’s parents, even if they didn’t know even half the story, had been nothing but encouraging.

Candice’s laptop was the talk of Ravenclaw tower, though she was still trying hard to get some kind of Wi-Fi to work out. Even Quill was helping her with the laptop and with studying for the Muggle Studies OWL (he had actually managed to convince Candice that yes, she _should_ study for this, because if she wanted to try to bridge the gap between Muggle technology and wizarding magic, she needed to take NEWT Muggle Studies so she could speak to wizards in their own language).

Jon and Austin were good, too, as were Zach and most of their other friends. Claudia, from what Rowan had heard, was fitting in very well in the dorm with Vivianne, Sybilla, Belle, and Isolde. Isolde didn’t know what to make of her, but Sybilla had said more than once in Rowan’s hearing that it was nice having another intelligent person around.

_“And what does that make Belle and me, Sybilla-dear?” Vivianne had asked, arching an eyebrow._

_“Intelligent people, of course. As I said—it’s nice having_ another _intelligent person around.”_

Belle, also – now that Rowan was getting to know her – was nice. Surprisingly nice. Her boyfriend James did not improve upon further acquaintance – which he was trying to avoid as much as he could – but Rowan supposed that one couldn’t have everything.

“Ladies and gentlemen – family and friends – old friends and new – welcome,” Vivianne said, drawing Rowan’s attention back to the present. “I want, first of all, to thank all of you for coming. It means a great deal to me – and to, I believe, all of the Gorloises – that you took the time to join us.” And with that, she nodded to several corners of the room – where Professor Lipskit was standing with Professor Zanetti, where Professor Longbottom was standing with a pretty blond woman, and where – yes – that _was_ Harry, standing with his wife, who when they met always insisted that Rowan call her Ginny.

“I know that none of you came here to listen to long speeches, so I shall try to make this brief,” Vivianne went on. “First, I would like to thank some people. My mother, of course,” somehow Vivianne did _not_ look sour as she said that, “Aunt Nell – Great-Aunt Enid and Great-Aunt Isolde – Uncle Victor – and all of my family here tonight, for all the help you’ve given me over the years. I would also like to thank two members of our family who cannot be here tonight: Perseus McDowell and Igraine Vivianne Gorlois, my grandfather and grandmother.”

Rowan heard her mother take a deep breath and shot her a quick smile.

“The Gorloises, as a clan, have survived over fifteen hundred years of war, rebellion, and upheaval – as well as peace, prosperity, and progress. We have developed many strong traditions over these years, traditions that have ensured our survival and allowed us to claim a place at the forefront of wizarding society. I assure all the Gorloises in this room that I will make every attempt to uphold those good traditions and ensure that the Gorloises remain in our high place throughout this new century and beyond.”

There was, of course, a smattering of applause. Rowan caught sight of a smirk flashing across Vivianne’s face at that.

It was gone in a second, replaced by utter seriousness. “However,” Vivianne continued, “I would be foolish to deny that the Gorlois family has also upheld its share of traditions that are outmoded and no longer useful. All families do. But part of what has made the Gorloises all that we are is our ability to sort the good from the bad, to continue to live up to the ideals that serve us well and discard those that hold us back.”

Rowan was not imagining the faint ripple of confusion that ran through the crowd.

“My grandmother, the historian, Matriarch, and Keeper of the Book Igraine Vivianne, understood this well. She understood it so well that when she chose her heir as Keeper of the Book, she chose a Gorlois that she, at one point, had no choice but to disown.”

Rowan’s eyes went wide. _She—she’s not—_

She was. Vivianne put her hand on Rowan’s shoulder. “I refer, of course, to my cousin – Rowan Igraine.”

Rowan tried to smile. She really did. But it was hard when a whole crowd of people suddenly looked at you – including more than a sprinkling of gem-eyed women with something very like murder in their eyes.

But somehow – in all of that – Rowan found Ben’s eyes. And when he smiled, so did she.

“Unfortunately my grandmother was murdered before she had a chance to rectify the ancient wrong that led to my aunt and cousin being cast out of the Clan so many years ago,” Vivianne went on. Of course she wouldn’t mince words on this. “She was, in fact, murdered precisely so she would not rectify that ancient wrong. But thankfully, she left enough clues as to her intent to allow her heirs to pick up where she left off.

“Which we have. I am, therefore, most pleased to announce that with the help of the Ministry,” Vivianne raised her glass in Harry’s direction, who looked utterly confused, “the Gorloises have finally ended the Lincolnshire Compact, and restored to full Clan status those Gorloises who have been barred from the Clan because of that compact – Elaine Nimue and Rowan Igraine.”

Harry still looked confused. So did most of the non-Gorloises. But the Gorloises?

There were many faces that were shocked, dismayed – angry – and Rowan winced to see that Aunt Josie was all three, and Professor Yaxley was worse. And there were many faces – most, in fact – that were completely closed.

But there was also a substantial minority of Gorloises who smiled. Who nodded. Who raised a glass in a silent toast. They were younger, by and large, though there were a few older women among them. Some of them had hair that was a few shades lighter than the trademark Gorlois black. Some were shorter, and some didn’t have quite the same regal cast of features that marked Gorlois women.

But they were there, and right now that was all that mattered.

“Of course it wasn’t easy to convince the Ministry that this particular agreement had outlived its usefulness – the Ministry is as fond of its traditions as the Gorloises are,” Vivianne went on. “But we prevailed, as Gorloises always do. As Gorloises always will, so long as we properly read the times and change with them—and not wait for the times to change us, and to our detriment.

“So a toast!” Vivianne raised her glass. “A formal toast of welcome, to Elaine Nimue and Rowan Igraine. Welcome back to the Clan – long may you stay here, and may you never be forced to leave it again!”

Rowan almost panicked—she wasn’t even holding a glass—but wait, you weren’t supposed to have a glass if you were being toasted, were you?

“To Elaine Nimue and Rowan Igraine!” Aunt Nell said, raising her glass – Les and Snow joined her immediately—

And to Rowan’s surprise, every Gorlois woman lifted her glass afterward. And everyone joined in on the toast.

“To Elaine Nimue and Rowan Igraine!”

* * *

Zach hadn’t actually seen much of Vivianne since the majority of the guests had arrived. When he’d first arrived, Josie insisted that he and Vivianne take pictures together, almost before his jaw had snapped back into place; he knew that the dress robes that his mother had designed for Vivianne were stunning, he’d heard nothing but how they were some of the best Wendy had done so far – but he hadn’t _seen_ them, except in barest sketch form, before he had gone back to school after Christmas holiday.

But giving Vivianne space once the party started made sense to Zach. Vivianne was the Gorlois Matriarch; Zach was … just the son of the woman who designed Vivianne’s dress robes. She had responsibilities that precluded her personal wants. He was happy enough with his friends anyway, not at all sure that he wanted to be over there amongst the wealthy and powerful.

Then came the announcement – which he hadn’t had a clue about. Not very many faces in the crowd seemed to have, though there _was_ a knowing edge to Sybilla’s smirk – now that she wasn’t glaring at her mother – that made Zach guess that she had known.

Still, once Vivianne’s speech was done and the toast was as well, Vivianne marched regally over to where Zach stood and extended her hands to him. He kissed the back of one, eliciting an _awww_ from somewhere in the crowd – probably Elaine, it seemed like an Elaine thing to do – then he tucked her hand into his elbow and lead the way out to the middle of the polished dance floor.

It was completely dark outside, but the windows were lit with enchanted lanterns that illuminated elegant patterns like window frost, though it was a mild evening outside. In fact, there seemed to be quite a bit of ice and crystal in the decorating; what colors there were were the exact gem-tones of the Gorlois eyes and tended to show up as just minor accents.

Not that he would have said so under threat of an Unforgivable, but given the wizard Josie was currently fawning over – and her dress – her taste in decorating was far better than her taste in … certain other things.

Vivianne nodded once in the direction of the now-lit alcove where the musicians were set up, and Zach’s eyes went wide before he could stop them.

Because that was Goldie and the Snitches – playing a private party – how had even Josie Gorlois managed _that_?

As the first strains of the song hit Zach’s ears, his eyes met Vivianne’s. It was slow, almost stately, but it was them; it was exactly them. “Chasing Cars.” He moved and Vivianne moved with him, flowing together; she seemed as lost in his eyes as he did in hers. It was – everything – just in that moment. Everything it needed to be, maybe more than that – and lost in that moment, dancing together … it was … _perfect_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is it, the very last chapter! Thank you to everyone who has stuck with us throughout this whole wild ride. We especially want to thank the people who bookmarked the story and left us kudos here on AO3.
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> We especially want to thank our beta reader, Van, who willingly chose to read through this whole thing before it was edited. Thank you, Van!
> 
> Thank you so much for all of your support! We hope you enjoyed the story!


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